


The Alexander Affair

by Suzie_Shooter



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Ancient Egypt, Archaeology, Canon-typical bodycount of random extras, Curses, Desert, Egyptology, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mild Peril, Seduction, Sexual Content, Theft, Voyeurism, ancient weapons, forced together by circumstance, wary alliances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-07 05:19:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 76,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7702267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1920's Egyptology AU - Athos is an archaeologist working for the British Museum, Porthos is a tomb robber/black marketeer working for Richelieu. Whilst each is well known in his field, up to now they've never met - until both set out on the trail of the long-lost tomb of Alexander the Great. </p><p>Athos has come into possession of an ancient inscription which indicates the possible location of the tomb - Porthos must steal it from him if he's to be in with a chance of getting there first, but Athos turns out to be not quite the academic pushover he's expecting. To make matters worse, they're not the only ones on the trail of the tomb - which might rather inconveniently also have a curse on it... </p><p>Written for a prompt by FromPella (full prompt text <a href="http://frompella.tumblr.com/post/147056390256/frompella-athos-porthos-tomb-raiders-here">here</a>).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChicotFP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChicotFP/gifts).



Having managed to secure his preferred spot directly beneath the ceiling fan, Athos was frowning over a two-week out of date Times crossword when the door to the coffeehouse was shoved open so hard it banged against his table, making him jump.

A young man, apparently in high dudgeon strode in and threw a dusty canvas satchel to the floor as if it had personally offended him. 

“God damn it!”

“Which one?” Athos murmured, mostly to himself, but the newcomer spun round and glared at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Which God? I mean – we are in Egypt. There’s quite a lot to choose from.” Athos looked amused, which earned him a poisonous look as the young man assumed he was being laughed at.

“I’m glad you think it’s funny.”

“Sorry I spoke,” Athos muttered, and went back to his crossword.

“Hang on. I know you.”

Athos looked up again warily. “Then you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Your name’s Athos right? British Museum?”

“Indeed. I’m sorry, I don’t know - ”

“D’Artagnan. Oxford University.” He was looking more cheerful now, and the two men shook hands. 

Athos was sure they’d never met, but the name still rang faint bells. 

“Oh. I think I knew your father. I was sorry to read he’d passed away last year.”

D’Artagnan’s smile faded again. “At least he didn’t live long enough for me to be a disappointment to him.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Long story.” D’Artagnan sighed, and Athos gestured to the chair opposite him. 

“I’m in no rush?”

D’Artagnan took the offered seat gratefully while Athos beckoned the proprietor over and ordered Turkish coffees for both of them.

“Thank you.” D’Artagnan finally relaxed a little, slumping back into his seat and scrubbing his hands through his hair. “It’s been a bad day already, and it’s only eleven o’clock.”

“What happened?” Athos asked solicitously.

“I’ve been robbed!”

Athos raised his eyebrows. “Did you lose much? They really should try and do something about the number of pickpockets in this city, they’re a public menace.”

D’Artagnan shook his head emphatically. “I’m not talking about a handful of coins. I’m talking about six months’ worth of artefacts from Abydos.”

“Good heavens.” 

“I said something a bit stronger than that when I realised, I don’t mind telling you.”

Athos hid a smile. “You’ve been excavating?”

D’Artagnan nodded. “Been out there, on and off most of the year. We’d broken through into a new vault, beneath the Temple of Seti?” He waited for Athos’ nod to indicate he was at least passingly familiar with the works going on at the site, and continued. 

“Well, it was just astounding some of the things we were bringing up. The wall paintings alone down there are enough to keep a whole team of scholars occupied for years. But there were whole rooms full of furniture, statures, offerings, practically pristine condition. I was shipping the first consignment back.” D’Artagnan sighed, shaking his head regretfully. “I’m a damned fool.”

“You’ve lost something?”

“I’ve lost everything.” D’Artagnan stared mournfully into his coffee cup, then pulled himself together a little. “Well, not everything. But the chests containing the most interesting items. Or should I say the most valuable? Gold plate, jewelled statuary, that sort of thing.”

“Have you told the police?” Athos asked curiously. He could see why d’Artagnan was agitated, but at the same time he seemed oddly fatalistic about it all.

“What’s the point?” D’Artagnan groaned. “I mean yes, I will, I’ll have to file a report in any case, but I don’t hold out much hope of ever seeing any of it again. We’ve been a week on the river, and it must have been switched before we boarded. They’ll be long gone.”

“You didn’t check on it during the trip?”

D’Artagnan glared at him, stung. “Of course I did! It was under lock and key!” He subsided again, looking sheepish. “I checked the chests were safe, twice a day. I just never thought to look inside them. When we unloaded at the quay early this morning, two of the dockers accidentally dropped one. I was about to chew them out for being careless, when all that spilled out of it was sand.”

“So someone actually swapped the contents, rather than just making off with the artefacts? Presumably hoping if the weight was the same you wouldn’t notice for a while, so giving them a head start? That’s quite smart.” Athos sounded vaguely impressed, and d’Artagnan gave him a dirty look.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t be so enthusiastic if it was you that had just lost months’ worth of work. What am I going to tell my sponsors? The University’s probably going to kick me out now.”

“Oh, don’t be so pessimistic,” Athos told him. “You’ve still got something left, haven’t you?”

“A couple of crates of inscribed tablets, yes. He obviously couldn’t be bothered taking those. No re-sale value I suppose.”

“You talk as if you know who it was,” Athos noted curiously.

“Oh, I’ve got a pretty good idea,” said d’Artagnan grimly. “The man who organised the transport to the boat. I thought he was too good to be true, and I reckon I was right, but at the time I was in a bind. We had a truck but it had broken down, and then this guy comes along with a bunch of camels. Offered the use of them for a pittance.”

“You mean you paid him as well?” Athos asked, only just managing to keep a straight face when d’Artagnan looked daggers at him.

“At the time I thought he was the answer to my prayers, we’d have missed the boat otherwise. Now I suspect he had a hand in the truck problems in the first place. He gave his name as Nassar, but I don’t think he was any more Egyptian than I am.”

“Hindsight’s a wonderful thing,” said Athos dryly. "Still, there's a chance things might still turn up. The authorities here are getting pretty hot on the black market trade in antiquities since the public interest in Egypt has gone through the roof. I assume you have a full catalogue of what was taken?"

D'Artagnan nodded gloomily. "Yes, descriptions and preliminary sketches in most cases. I was bringing them back for further study, we've got an office allocated in the museum here."

Athos clicked his fingers, belatedly making a connection. "Constance Bonacieux?" 

"Yes, that's her. She started after I'd left for Abydos, so I've not met her yet. How do you know her?"

"My office is just down the corridor from hers," Athos explained. "We've had lunch together a few times." 

"That's very charitable of you."

Athos looked surprised. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, I heard she was a widow. I suppose I've been picturing a little old lady," d'Artagnan admitted. 

Athos smiled to himself. "I think in that case you might be surprised," he murmured.

"So are you based here full time now?" d'Artagnan asked, changing the subject when Athos infuriatingly refused to be drawn further on Constance. "I read your site reports from Abu Ghurab, will there be further excavations?"

"There's still a team out there," Athos nodded, "but as for myself, I'll be leaving for Alexandria shortly, I've been asked to head up another project."

"Can you say what?" d'Artagnan pressed eagerly, and Athos smiled at his enthusiasm.

"I shouldn't really. You work for the opposition," he declared, and d'Artagnan looked indignant for a moment until he realised Athos was joking. 

"Oh go on. Who am I going to tell? Right now I don't even know anyone else in Cairo." 

Athos leaned back and crossed his ankles. "Fine, but if I get there to find a team from Oxford there ahead of me..." he broke off and held up a hand in apology as he saw d'Artagnan was taking it personally. "I'm teasing. But one can't be too careful, as you've already discovered. I suppose I'm worried less about professional espionage and more about looters. Have you finished your coffee? Walk with me back to the museum, and I'll tell you on the way."

Outside, the heat of the day was oppressive in the narrow street, and d'Artagnan was soon wiping sweat out of his eyes as they made their way through the crowds. 

"How does it feel hotter here than out in the desert?" he complained, eyeing Athos' hat with a certain amount of jealousy. "I'm starting to wish I was still on the river. I liked it out there. At least there was a breeze." And he'd still been in blissful ignorance about the theft of his artefacts, d'Artagnan reflected ruefully. What a difference a day made.

"So go on," he pressed, keen for a distraction from his troubles. "What's the big secret in Alexandria?"

"Alexander himself," said Athos. "More specifically, his tomb. The historical record mostly concurs it's there somewhere. I'm going to find it." He said this with a quiet confidence and without a trace of arrogance, but d'Artagnan burst out laughing.

"You're serious?" he spluttered, when Athos just looked at him. "Alexander the Great? Do you know how many people have looked for it before?"

"I'm quite aware, yes," Athos said calmly.

"What are you going to do for an encore, find the tomb of Genghis Khan?"

"Well if you're not interested." Athos folded his arms and d'Artagnan realised that despite his offhand manner Athos was actually mildly offended and immediately apologised.

"I'm sorry. It's just - a wild goose chase. Surely. Isn't it?" he asked curiously, slowly realising that if Athos had the backing of the British Museum he must have more to go on than ancient hearsay. 

Athos gave him a level stare, seemingly weighing up whether to confide in him. "We think we know where to look," he admitted. "There are several accounts of various historical personages going to visit it, comparison of those narrows it down to a specific geographical area within the old city. Say within a couple of square miles."

"Yes, okay," d'Artagnan conceded. "That's still a needle in a haystack though, surely?"

"It was, until February." Athos gave him the kind of sideways look that suggested he had an ace up his sleeve. "Last year the British Museum received as a bequest the contents of a private library that included a considerable collection of manuscripts in Arabic, dating back in some cases several centuries. One of our research students, Samara Alaman, was translating these as part of her doctorate studies."

"And one of them mentioned the tomb?" d'Artagnan guessed.

"Exactly. We now know - or think we do - more of less where it is, thanks to a Moroccan merchant in the thirteenth century who wrote about visiting the tomb as a footnote to detailing his commercial interests in Alexandria. That's way later than all the other accounts, and it sounds like the place was still famous at least locally for what it held."

D'Artagnan shrugged. "That's all well and good but I guarantee you I could find you twenty men in the marketplace right here willing to show a gullible tourist the ancient basement of the pharaohs for a very reasonable price."

"You think he was taken for a ride? It's a possibility. But the manuscript got enough people excited enough to finance the dig." Athos smiled. "And I for one am not complaining."

By now they'd reached the Museum of Antiquities and entered the coolness of the lobby with some relief. D'Artagnan never tired of coming here, although his visits to date had mostly been brief. He enjoyed fieldwork, but the thought of perhaps one day having his own office here was a tantalising thrill.

There was high international interest in Egypt at the moment, stemming mostly from the discovery of Tutankhamen’s tomb a few years earlier. The Egyptian Antiquities Department consequently found themselves having to wrangle representatives of museums and universities from all over Europe, and had stuck most of them on the same corridor on the first floor at the back of the building. 

Having reached his own office, Athos shook d'Artagnan's hand once more and nodded to a door a little further on. "Well, nice to have met you. That's the Oxford set up down there. Say hello to Constance for me." 

D'Artagnan ventured into the room Athos had indicated, feeling unaccustomedly nervous. There were several packing crates on the floor near the door, and he realised with some relief that his remaining finds had at least arrived safely ahead of him.

"Hello?" he called out. "Anyone here?"

A movement in the corner of the room made him turn, and to his surprise found a striking young woman had emerged from behind a bookcase and was looking at him with considerable disfavour.

"Can I help you?" she asked icily. D'Artagnan abruptly wished he'd gone to his hotel first to change his clothes and maybe have a bath. Or at least comb his hair. He'd been travelling for a week, and catching sight of his reflection in a mirror over the desk he suddenly realised he looked like a tramp.

"Um. I, er. I'm d'Artagnan? I'm expected. Er. I hope." 

"You're d'Artagnan?" she asked dubiously. "Do you mind if I see some proof of that?"

D'Artagnan bristled, but he had to concede she had a point. He searched through his bag for his papers, and handed her passport and visa, which she scrutinised with what he felt was rather insulting attention.

"Hmmn." She still looked unconvinced, but handed them back with a nod. "I guess you are then. I'm Constance Bonacieux." 

D'Artagnan blinked. "You are?"

"Is there a problem?" Constance asked sternly.

"No! No. Absolutely not. I was just expecting someone - er - well, older."

Constance glared at him. "Yes, well I was expecting someone cleaner."

D'Artagnan cleared his throat. "It's been a long trip. I'm not normally this scruffy," he protested, wishing obscurely that Athos had commented on his appearance, and drawn his attention to how bad it was. Then he remembered Athos' comment about taking Constance to lunch and wondered if he'd let him walk in here like this on purpose, to create a bad first impression.

"Are you alright?" Constance asked curiously. "You look really - fierce, all of a sudden."

"I'm having a bad day," d'Artagnan sighed. "Still, looks like my cases arrived okay?"

"Yes, these turned up about half an hour ago. I was expecting a few more of them though?"

D'Artagnan coughed. "Ah. Yes. About that..."

\--

The hotel suite was richly appointed, with exquisite furnishings and tall windows opening onto the cool shade of an inner courtyard garden. 

In front of the windows a man was seated at a card table, examining in minute detail a number of artefacts arranged before him.

Watching him in turn, Porthos stood waiting with a faint air of resentful deference. He had not been offered a chair.

"Well?" he blurted finally, unable to stand the silence any longer.

The man seated before him was Armand du Plessis Richelieu, one of France's richest men, well known patron of the arts, and less well known owner of one of the largest private collections of looted artefacts in the world.

"Acceptable," Richelieu pronounced finally, carefully setting an electrum chalice back on the baize table cover. He eyed a chipped alabaster shabti and made a moue of distaste. "Mostly." A deliberate movement of his hand sent the statuette toppling to the tiled floor, where it shattered into fragments.

Porthos couldn't prevent the instinctive jerk he'd made to try and catch it before checking himself, the fingers of his left hand clenching convulsively in frustration. His reaction had not gone unnoticed by Richelieu, who gave him an arch look.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he drawled in mock remorse. "Does that hurt your sensibilities as an historian?" He sat up, holding Porthos' resentful gaze with eyes full of steel. "You forget yourself. You gave up all claim to the finer feelings of academia the day you became my man. You're nothing but a common thief. And if we are to continue with this - mutually beneficial relationship - you will do well to remember that."

Richelieu watched the warring expressions on Porthos' face for a second, then nodded to himself when the man held his tongue. "Do we understand each other?"

"Yes sir." Porthos ground the words out reluctantly but he'd clearly given in, and Richelieu gave a brisk nod.

"Excellent. In which case I have another task for you. Word has reached me that the British Museum are financing an excavation to find the lost tomb of Alexander."

Porthos looked surprised. "Alexander the Great?"

"No, Alexander the Mildly Irritating, who do you suppose?" Richelieu snapped. "I don't care how you do it but I need you to get yourself on that excavation." 

"Who's running it?"

"Athos de la Fere. You know him?"

Porthos shook his head. "I've heard the name. All those British Museum types are the same though. All stuffy starched collars and pince-nez. Trust me, he won't pose a problem."

"Good. Take any measures you feel necessary."

Porthos nodded slowly. "If he does manage to locate the tomb, it'll be the find of the century." 

"Yes well I don't care about that. I want you to secure me the sarcophagus."

"Just the sarcophagus? What's so special about that?" Porthos asked, surprised. 

Richelieu gave him a slow, cat-like smile. "Legend has it, Alexander's coffin was made entirely from beaten gold."

\--


	2. Chapter 2

"Athos!" 

Turning to look up the platform as the train pulled out in a hiss of steam, Athos found himself abruptly enveloped in the embrace of an old friend.

"Aramis! Thank you for meeting me. It's so good of you to offer to put me up like this." 

"Nonsense. When you said you were coming to Alexandria I could hardly leave you to the dubious comforts of a hotel. It's good to see you. My God, how long's it been?"

"Must be a couple of years," Athos smiled. "In fact last time I saw you, you were still working as a GP in Bournemouth. Bit of a drastic change wasn't it?"

Aramis cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I find I prefer the climate out here." Athos just looked at him levelly and he groaned. "Oh alright, there was possibly a small unpleasantness that made it rather urgent that I left the country."

"A woman?" Athos guessed, shouldering his bag and following Aramis out of the station. 

"Technically a husband," Aramis admitted, not looking particularly ashamed of himself.

"You're incorrigible," Athos scolded, and Aramis grinned at him.

"What about you? Any la Fere romance on the horizon?"

"I prefer my women embalmed."

Aramis snorted. "You'd do well to think about getting married. People are starting to talk about you."

Athos held his gaze with a slight look of amusement. "Oh really? And what are they saying?"

After a second Aramis just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's get you home. Sun's over the yard-arm and you must be dying for a drink after that trip."

\--

Ensconced happily in two cane chairs on the veranda of Aramis' house in the suburbs, they watched the sun go down over the rim of a whisky and soda.

"I'm confused," Aramis announced, after they'd spent a while catching up with all that had happened in their lives, and Athos' current reasons for being here. "I mean, I confess I'm no historian, but I know two - no, three things about Alexander the Great. He was Greek?"

Athos nodded. 

"He founded Alexandria?"

"Good guess."

"And he conquered most of Asia."

"A lot of it, yes. He got all the way to India."

"So why are you looking for him in Egypt? Didn't he die somewhere out East?"

"You're nearly right," Athos conceded, accepting a fresh drink with a smile of thanks. "Not quite top of the class though. He died in Babylon, by all accounts. From there it's a matter of some debate what happened to his body. Some think there was a move to take it back to Greece, while Alexander himself allegedly wanted to be buried at Siwa. What he wanted, however, didn't really come into it, as Ptolemy hijacked the body on its way back and history suggests it eventually made its way here, probably via Memphis."

"Ah. Ptolemy the Pharaoh?" 

"Yes, exactly. It gave him legitimacy you see. To possess the body of Alexander, in a way it made him the official successor in Egypt."

"And I'm sure it didn't hurt that he was probably accompanied by a stinking lot of gold and jewels to be buried with?" Aramis laughed.

"Cynic." Athos smiled. "Although I confess there is a legend that Alexander's coffin was made out of pure gold."

"That's more like it!" Aramis sat up. 

Athos laughed at his sudden interest. "I wouldn't get too excited, it was supposedly melted down centuries ago. My interest in his resting place is purely academic."

"Course it is." Aramis toasted him with his glass and grinned. "So go on, where is it then? It's funny, I think of excavations, I picture pyramids and miles of sand, not the middle of a city."

"Cities have just as much history as sites that have been abandoned," Athos pointed out. "More so, obviously. It's just underneath."

"You're not going to undermine some poor sod's house are you?" Aramis teased.

"We think it's under a mosque, actually."

"Well they won't be best pleased, either."

"We have got permission!" Athos protested, enduring Aramis' ribbing good naturedly. "It's a co-operative effort."

"I'm sure it'll go without a hitch," Aramis said peaceably. "And you're welcome to stay as long as you need. I'll be glad of the company, to tell you the truth. It's all gouty retired Majors and voluminous widows on the social scene here." 

"I can't promise my company will be exactly lively," Athos told him. "It's a rewarding career this, but hardly what you'd call exciting."

\--

D'Artagnan was staring out of the window at the rooftops of Cairo, idly toying with some ancient gaming pieces set out on an inscribed slate. He was at a bit of a loose end, to his disgust having been temporarily suspended from his duties whilst the University debated whether ultimate responsibility for the loss of the Abydos relics should lie with him. 

With the rest of his colleagues still out at the dig site and Athos departed for Alexandria, he had no one else to talk to, so had come in to the office anyway.

He'd hoped to strike up a mutually favourable relationship with Constance, but even after two weeks' persistence, he got the uncomfortable impression she privately thought he was a bit of an idiot.

With the majority of the finds she'd been expecting to work on missing, Constance was translating the tablets that had survived the theft. These had proved to be mostly records of offerings made at the temple, and in some cases they’d managed to match them up to actual items recovered by the excavation team, making it doubly galling that d’Artagnan had subsequently lost them again.

"D'Artagnan!" 

The unexpected call made him jump, and his hand sent gaming pieces skittering all over the floor. Swearing internally, he hastily scooped them back up before straightening his collar and making his way over to Constance's workstation, trying to look nonchalant and not at all like he was hurrying.

"What's up?" 

"You should see this." Constance was examining a carved tablet under a magnifying lens on a bracket. He leaned in over her shoulder, and was faintly disappointed when she moved back out of his way.

“What is it?” He frowned at the cramped hieroglyphs. In some places the tablet was worn almost smooth and difficult to read, but it was immediately apparent that this was no mere goods receipt. It seemed to be a record of a significant personage visiting the temple site, although as they had presumably left appropriately substantial offerings it explained why it had been found with the others.

“Look at the cartouche here,” Constance prompted impatiently after he’d been scanning it for a while without any noticeable excitement.

She pointed out a particular group of symbols and he looked up in surprise as the significance of the name struck him, not to mention the coincidence of the timing. “Alexander? _The_ Alexander?”

“Yes!” Constance looked expectantly at him as d’Artagnan perched himself of on the edge of her desk. 

“So he visited Abydos?” d’Artagnan wondered aloud. “That’s huge if it’s true. I don’t think there’s any previous record of that.”

“Well it won’t have made a big impression on him,” Constance said dryly. “He was dead at the time. This is recording the fact his body was brought here on its way from Memphis.”

“To Memphis,” d’Artagnan corrected absently then yelped as she kicked him in the ankle. As she was wearing very sturdy boots, this was quite painful. “Ow! Now what did I do?” 

“Implied I can’t translate what’s in front of me,” Constance said tartly. “It quite clearly says the funeral party came here from Memphis, on its way to Siwa.”

“But that’s not right,” d’Artagnan began, then hastily shifted back off the desk as she looked murderous. “The historical records states - “

“I don’t care what the historical record states,” Constance declared indignantly. “I’m telling you what this says. I can’t tell you whether it’s true or not, but that’s what it says.”

D’Artagnan came warily back to the desk and pored over the faint carvings, eventually coming to the inescapable conclusion that Constance was right. 

"You realise what this means?" he murmured, straightening up and staring distantly out of the window.

Constance looked enquiring. “What? That your academic backside might just have been saved by a significant discovery? Made by me, incidentally.”

“No. I mean yes! Absolutely by you,” d’Artagnan corrected hurriedly. “But I wasn’t thinking of that. No – it means Athos is digging in completely the wrong place!"

\--

Almost a month in, and works beneath the mosque were progressing in steady if undramatic fashion. Athos had been allocated an administrative area in a more recent add-on to the building to use as an office, and was frowning over a report when his site manager burst in excitedly.

"Mister Athos! Come quickly!"

Athos looked up in surprise and slight alarm. "Whatever is it, Hassan?" The man, a resident of the city since birth and responsible in part for negotiating them the permission to dig here was normally entirely unflappable, and he briefly worried there'd been an accident. To his relief, Hassan just grinned at him.

"Come and see."

Glad enough to abandon the report he was writing and get back to the dig site, Athos dropped his glasses onto the desk and followed him down to the cellar where a team of men were carefully removing layers of accumulated build up beneath the floor in the hope of finding a structure that might date from the period they were interested in.

They climbed down a wooden ladder into the pit, which was by now quite substantial, and Hassan gestured at what seemed to be a blank wall.

"What am I looking at?" Athos asked, feeling that he was missing something.

"A door! Look. See here, the crack running up, and this one?"

"Could just be ordinary cracking in the plaster," Athos said dubiously.

"No, here, too, see? Across the top."

"A lintel line?" Athos peered more closely. "It’s possible. A doorway that's been rendered over?" The cracks did seem to describe a vague door shape, if you screwed your eyes up.

"If it was bricked up, there could still be rooms beyond," Hassan said eagerly. "Not filled up, like this side was."

"Still unlikely to be the period we’re after, judging by the levels," Athos mused. "Still, worth a shot. Can we get this plaster off?"

Willing hands and several lump hammers went to work, and the old unremarkable plaster rapidly crumbled away to expose what was definitely an old doorway, albeit tightly packed with neat stonework.

"You want these out too?" Hassan asked quickly, and hefted a crowbar. Athos frowned at him.

"Yes, but not until we've recorded it. Get someone down here to sketch the infill." 

Hassan looked mildly deflated. "You don't want to know what's behind?" he protested.

"Of course I do. But it's still going to be there tomorrow," Athos pointed out. "But the masonry won't be, once we’ve taken it out. So I want a record of it."

Hassan shook his head dismally. "You are a very patient man, Mister Athos."

Athos smiled, turning back to the ladder. "I’ll take that as a compliment, despite the fact I suspect you intended quite the opposite."

\--

By ten the next morning, a satisfactory rendering of the blocked up entrance had been produced and Athos gave the go ahead to start removing the stones. With everyone eager to see what lay beyond, the entrance was soon cleared enough to squeeze through and with a wary eye to the cracked lintel above, Athos wriggled through the hole into the darkness beyond.

The light from the cellar didn’t penetrate far, but Athos found himself standing on a flagged stone floor, with enough room to stand upright. There was a feeling of space around him, and when Hassan handed through an electric torch Athos discovered he was standing at the end of a long passage. 

As he flashed the torch around, the first thing he saw was a gleaming white skull, and only just stopped himself from giving an undignified yelp of surprise. Closer inspection of the walls revealed many more, their eyeless sockets staring down at him from niches set into the stonework, between larger openings that brimmed with a deeper darkness.

They’d breached a section of the city’s catacombs, Athos realised. Undisturbed for centuries, there must be hundreds of shrouded burials down here, each spending eternity in their own silent alcove.

Behind him, Hassan had stepped through the doorway too, followed by a number of the workers, whose excitement at the discovery lasted as long as it took to see what was waiting for them. As the beam of Athos’ torch picked out row after row of balefully staring skulls, the labourers jostled back through the opening in sudden agitation.

Athos sighed. "They do understand they were engaged to excavate a tomb?" he asked rather acidly.

At his side, Hassan laughed. "The theory of a thing is not always the same as coming face to face with it."

"You don't seem to mind?"

"I am a modern man." Hassan's grin widened. "Besides, I would say by the look of this vaulting these catacombs are medieval."

"Why does that make a difference?" Athos was wandering further down the narrow passage, ducking under the hanging sheets of cobweb. To either side rectangular openings were arrayed from floor to ceiling, each with the mouldering remains of a skeletal occupant, while every now and then someone had made a grisly display of disarticulated skulls and longbones set into the stonework.

"By that period, the people here, they were good Muslims, good Christians," Hassan announced, following at his heels. "They feared the walking dead, they did not - " he waved a hand in the air, searching for the right word in English. "Instigate it. No Mister Athos, it is only the ancient dead that you need to beware of."

"Well, I'll certainly bear that in mind," Athos promised, sounding amused. "But the question is can you convince that lot back there?"

"Oh yes. The desire to be paid, it will soon get them over the shock of so many silent watchers," Hassan laughed. "They have nothing to fear from these guys." He slapped a hand down on top of a skull in a recess to emphasis his point. The skull sank beneath his hand as the section of stonework below clicked downwards, and at the end of the passage a whole section of wall seemed to fall away.

They stared at it in mutual astonishment. Hassan eyed Athos sheepishly. "That's not going to come out of my wages is it?"

"On the contrary, I think I might have to pay you a bonus," Athos said, moving cautiously forwards and shining his torch into the new hole. It was swallowed up by the blackness beyond. "You may have inadvertently saved us months of digging. Can we get some better lights down here? And a ladder." He peered down into the dark. "I think we're going to need a ladder."

\--

The street door to Athos’ site office creaked open, and Porthos stuck his head cautiously inside. Finding it obligingly empty, he strode in and automatically ran his eye over the small objects littering the desk. One of these was a beautifully carved figurine which he automatically slid into his pocket. He was examining a tarnished candlestick in an effort to determine whether it was silver or not when a noise from the inner doorway made him swing round.

To his alarm Porthos found there was a man standing in the doorway covering him with a revolver, and cursed himself for a fool for not making sure the coast was clear.

"Put that down! Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in here?"

Porthos gave what he hoped was an innocent smile and set the candlestick carefully down on the desk before raising his hands, trying not to look guilty.

"I'm looking for Athos de la Fere?"

"You've found him." The gun didn't waver, and Porthos belatedly revised his mental image of the dig's director as being old and harmless.

"I asked who you were," Athos repeated.

"My name's Porthos. I'm, er – I’m your new draughtsman."

"I already have a draughtsman." Athos came closer, although for the moment staying carefully out of reach.

"Well, I guess there's a lot to draw?" Porthos’ ingratiating smile was starting to lose sincerity in the face of Athos' scowl. "I'm on loan from the Louvre."

"I assume you have the relevant papers then?"

“I was told they were writing to you?” Porthos said, affecting surprise. “Are you not expecting me?”

“No.” Athos considered him critically. He was reasonably sure he’d locked the outer door before going down to the excavations. “You’ll at least have some identification on you?” he suggested.

Porthos reluctantly took his passport out and handed it over. Athos flipped it open and raised an eyebrow. "Porthos du Vallon?"

"See? All in order," Porthos said hopefully.

"Mmn. Except, I'm afraid, your reputation precedes you. You see I know that name. You're wanted for black market trading in antiquities in – I believe at the last count, seven countries?"

Porthos looked blank. "There could be two people with the same name?" he ventured.

Athos stepped closer, and for a second Porthos was confused as to what his intentions were, particularly when Athos slipped his free hand into Porthos' trouser pocket.

When Athos moved away again he was holding the figurine Porthos had pilfered a minute earlier, and Porthos looked at it in surprise. "Now wherever did that come from?"

Athos shook his head reprovingly. "And there was me thinking you were just pleased to see me," he murmured, setting the figurine down on his desk. "Now, you just wait here while I get someone to put through a telephone call to the police commissioner. I've a feeling they'd like to have a little chat with you." 

"Uh uh. I'm going to walk out of here,” Porthos said confidently. “And you can’t stop me."

"Oh, you think? I promise you I am entirely willing to shoot you where you stand."

"You're bluffing."

"You're really willing to gamble your life on that? Looters like you deserve everything they get."

Porthos slumped as if in defeat, then abruptly snatched the figurine up from the corner of Athos' desk and threw it at him. It wasn't a vicious throw, but Porthos guessed correctly that Athos would elect to catch it rather than watch it break, and by the time Athos could bring the gun to bear again, Porthos' broad back was disappearing through the door.

Athos gave chase, but Porthos was faster than he looked, and Athos ran out into the street to find that he'd disappeared completely.

"Damn it!"

"Everything alright?"

Athos turned to find Aramis standing by the door, giving the gun in his hand a look of surprise.

Athos sighed, tucking it away again. "Someone just tried to rob me," he explained.

"He got away, I take it?"

Athos gave him a rueful smile. "He called my bluff," he admitted. "He'll be back though. And when he does I'll be waiting."

"Whatever makes you think that?"

Athos gave him a grim smile. "I've still got his passport." He suddenly caught sight of a second figure hanging back behind Aramis and blinked. "D'Artagnan? Whatever are you doing here?"

"He turned up at the house looking for you," Aramis explained. "I thought I'd better bring him down."

"Thank you." Athos looked to d'Artagnan for an explanation, and he flushed.

"It's a long story."

"You seem to have a lot of those. Your life appears to be very complicated," Athos noted, making Aramis laugh. "Come on then. You'd better come inside and tell me what it's all about."

\--


	3. Chapter 3

Half an hour later Athos was examining the tablet d'Artagnan had presented, and musing over his story.

"One thing I don’t understand," he said, looking up. "Why have you come to me with this? I mean, it's not that I don’t appreciate it, but – we work for completely different organisations. Why not take this to your people?"

D'Artagnan looked embarrassed. "I did," he admitted. "They weren't interested."

Aramis, who'd been captivated by the story, was surprised. "Not interested!"

Athos wasn't. "They don't feel it's worth following up then," he said flatly.

"They think it falls in with the known historical intention to take Alexander’s body to Siwa, which never happened. But this inscription definitely indicates that he was taken south again from Memphis and not to Alexandria." d’Artagnan argued hotly. "Plus you've already got a team geared up to dig for exactly this. Even if the University was interested there'd be no funding available to mount an excavation."

"I've got a team assembled, that doesn't mean I can send them on a wild goose chase halfway across Egypt," Athos pointed out. "Or are you trying to ruin my reputation as well as your own?"

D'Artagnan glared at him, but shrugged. "I thought you might be interested in at least checking it out. It wouldn't take that long. We could both go."

"Shouldn’t you be getting back to Abydos?"

D'Artagnan fidgeted uncomfortably. "I'm on an enforced leave of absence while they look into the disappearance of the relics," he admitted. "Until they judge if I was negligent I can't go back to work. One of the Trustees even suggested I might have had a hand in it!" He looked angry. "I've never been so insulted in my life. And I told him so."

"And does that have more to do with why you're currently suspended?" Athos asked, sounding amused. D'Artagnan sighed.

"Possibly," he admitted, flushing. "I should have kept my mouth shut, but really!"

"And if you did manage to have a hand in uncovering the tomb of Alexander, it would go a long way towards re-establishing your good name?" Athos guessed.

"The thought had crossed my mind, yes." D’Artagnan looked embarrassed, but Athos was thoughtful, staring at the tablet again.

"I can't justify funding a trip like this,” he warned. “However compelling your evidence. It would take us days to get to Siwa."

"I could pay," Aramis offered, and they both looked at him, d'Artagnan with a certain amount of hope and Athos in surprise.

"You?"

"Why not? If you think there's a genuine possibility the lad's right, then I'm willing to fund our travel. I could do with a break."

"You'd come too?" Athos asked, and Aramis nodded with a smile.

"Why should you have all the fun?"

D'Artagnan was looking excited. "So you do think it's worth investigating then?" he persisted. He'd been disappointed to learn that his own employers weren't willing to follow it up, and the fact that Athos hadn't dismissed it out of hand meant a lot to him.

Athos rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "If you'd come to me yesterday, I might have been less easily convinced," he admitted. "But this morning we made a discovery - an inner chamber, accessed through the city catacombs beneath the floor here. I'm ninety percent sure it's the crypt Alexander's remains - or whatever was being displayed as such - was housed in, that appears in all the records."

"But - if you've already found it - ?" D'Artagnan was confused.

Athos shook his head, with a sigh. "The space was empty. It'll make an interesting academic paper, but nothing more." He picked up the tablet again, and studied it consideringly. "If you're right, and this really does indicate Alexander's tomb lies somewhere else entirely - it would be huge. I can't pretend I'm not tempted by the idea of being the one to finally find it."

\--

The three of them were relaxing after dinner that evening when there came a sudden urgent hammering on the front door. Going to investigate, Aramis returned with a young boy who was clearly in a state of excited alarm and breathless from running.

"He said he needs to talk to you," Aramis told Athos with a shrug. 

Athos frowned, leaning forward in his chair to look at the boy more closely. "It's Ari, isn't it?" he said gently, recognising the boy as someone who frequently ran errands for the workmen on the site. "Don't be afraid," he added in Arabic, seeing that the boy was abruptly tongue tied at finding himself in such surroundings being stared at by strangers. "What's wrong?"

"Hassan sent me to fetch you," the boy replied, the words now all trying to come out together in an excited rush. "He says there is a break in. That you must come."

"A break in?" Athos got to his feet in alarm. "Did he send for the police?"

Ari shook his head. "He sent me for you sir."

Athos groaned. "Alright. I'll come." He searched his pocket for a coin and tossed it to Ari. "You go home now, you hear? You're to stay out of the way." Ari nodded and Aramis showed him out again while Athos fetched his jacket and his gun.

"You want us to come with you?" d'Artagnan offered.

"No, I'll be fine," Athos said grimly. "I suspect it's that bloody du Vallon man, that's all. No point in involving the police until I know what's going on. I'll see you later."

He strode out, and d'Artagnan looked anxiously at Aramis. "Shouldn't we go too?" 

Aramis looked unconcerned. "If Athos says he can handle it, I have no doubt he can." He grinned. "Come and have another drink."

\--

When Athos reached the dig site he found the door to his office hanging open, the lock splintered and broken. He frowned, easing it wider and stepping quietly inside. He was still assuming that this was the work of Porthos, having returned to either search for his passport or see what was lying around worth stealing, but there was something nagging at the back of his mind that didn't sit right.

Inside Athos found a scene of devastation, with artefacts and papers strewn all over the floor and the desk overturned. It looked almost more like the result of a search than a theft, although surely Porthos wouldn't have caused such chaos looking for his missing passport? Sherds of something unidentifiable crunched underfoot, and Athos winced, looking down. There was something wrong here. He could believe Porthos might have returned to pocket anything not nailed down, but he found it hard to credit he'd have broken things with such careless disregard for their historical value. The man had been a fairly well respected archaeologist himself before he turned his hand to thieving.

Had Hassan interrupted him, had there been a struggle, Athos wondered. Which reminded him, his site manager was surely still here somewhere.

"Hassan?" he called quietly, pushing the inner door open and stepping out into the corridor. As he touched the handle, the thing that had been nagging at him suddenly clicked into place. Earlier, he was fairly sure Porthos had picked the lock to get in, so it made no sense for him to force the door open this time. Which suggested - Athos froze, all theories suddenly driven out of his head. A little way down the passage, a sandalled foot was sticking out of the door to Hassan's office.

Athos hurried forward in alarm, finding Hassan spread-eagled on the floor with blood soaking the front of his jellabiya. Athos dropped to his knees beside him, discovering two things that filled him with a numb horror. As he feared, Hassan was dead - and he'd been shot. 

Reaching instinctively for his own gun, Athos noticed too late the movement inside the room and suddenly found himself facing not one but two strange men, both aiming guns at him.

He stood up slowly, putting his hands up and cursing himself for assuming that Hassan's attackers had already fled.

"What the hell have you done?" Athos asked, his voice hoarse with shock. "Who are you?" He realised as he spoke they might not even understand him, but was gruffly answered in English.

"Never mind who we are. Tell us where it is, or you'll go the same way as your friend here," one of them snapped.

"Where what is?" Athos asked, bewildered. They'd found nothing that warranted this level of violence, mostly smaller funerary artefacts of academic and religious interest only.

"Don't be smart. The sarcophagus."

"What sarcophagus?" Athos was genuinely confused now, and uncomfortably aware that the second man who hadn't yet spoken was edging around him, herding him further into the room. "We haven't found a sarcophagus. I can show you about two hundred skeletons, but they're all in shrouds, I promise you."

"Don't think you can fool us. Our source says you've found the tomb of Alexander the Great. Well our principal wants his coffin." The man waved his gun in Athos' face in what was presumably meant to be an encouraging manner. "You know, the gold one? I suggest you start being a bit more talkative than the last guy unless you want to end up equally dead."

Athos shook his head. "You're mistaken. And if you're implying that you’re paying one of my staff for information, then you've got the wrong end of the stick. We found a hidden chamber today, yes, but it was empty."

"I warned you not to lie to me! Now where is it?" 

"Oh don't be obtuse man! I can't tell you where to find something I don't have!" Athos snapped back angrily, earning him a filthy look from the second intruder.

"We're wasting time. Just shoot him, Georges. We'll search the place ourselves."

Athos took an appalled step backwards as the first man took aim at him - and then several more hasty steps as a heavy bookcase suddenly toppled over towards them, sending the two men flying. 

As the bookcase came crashing down it revealed Porthos standing behind it, who promptly jumped over a slew of papers and grabbed Athos' arm. "Well don't just stand there!"

Finally unfreezing, Athos followed him out of the door at a run. "Friends of yours?" he panted, unsure as to why Porthos should just have saved his life, but certainly having no complaints.

"Oh do me a favour," Porthos retorted. "Quick, down here." He disappeared down the passage to the basement excavations before Athos could stop him.

"Not that way! Oh for - " Athos followed him at a run. From the sounds of groaning and swearing inside the office, the bookcase had done nothing more than temporarily inconvenience Hassan's attackers.

He caught up with Porthos in the cellar, looking round for another exit.

"How do we get out?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you," Athos sighed. "There is no way out down here."

"Then you'd better come up with some place to hide," Porthos told him. "I think I pissed them off."

"Who are they?" Athos demanded, shifting a pallet away from the opening into the catacombs and squeezing through. Porthos followed him with slightly more difficulty, and they tried to drag the wooden pallet back over the entrance behind them.

"How should I know?" Porthos argued. "I just came back to look for my passport. Found the place in a mess and followed the sound of voices. Lucky for you I did. Hey, I just saved your life. You totally owe me my passport back, right?"

"For all I know you could have set the whole thing up," Athos argued, looking round and weighing up their options. The pallet wouldn't confuse the men for long and the lower room was a dead end, a turn of phrase that suddenly took on nasty new connotations.

"Come off it." Porthos sounded genuinely insulted. "Look, I might be a thief but I've never killed anyone. I promise you, whoever they are, they're nothing to do with me."

"Fine." Athos realised they were running out of time to argue. "Look, we're going to have to hide in one of the niches. Climb up to a high level one, and in the dark they may not notice us."

Porthos looked at the series of dark openings, each with its sinister bony inhabitant and shuddered. "You're joking, right?"

"It appears to be this or take your chances getting shot," Athos said shortly, already climbing up to the top level and crawling into the first hole he came to. Bones rolled and crunched under his hands and knees, and he pushed a skull to one side apologetically. "Excuse me, won't you," he murmured, rolling onto his back and listening to the sounds of Porthos apparently climbing up behind him.

A few seconds later Athos was startled as the faint glimmer of light at the entrance was blocked off by a body, and Porthos crawled in after him.

"What are you doing?" he hissed furiously.

"The others are all occupied," Porthos grinned, crawling up the line of Athos' body and settling down on top of him.

"So's this one!" Athos ground out, caught between the rising desire to yell at him, and knowing that if they were heard it could mean the death of them both.

"Shhh." Porthos grinned in the dark and obstinately wriggled himself into a more comfortable position.

Down below a scraping thump suggested their pursuers had found their way through, and both Athos and Porthos went still. 

Athos gritted his teeth, trying to concentrate on the immediate danger rather than the fact that there was now a very large, very heavy and, as parts of his brain insisted on unhelpfully pointing out, above all very _attractive_ man lying on top of him in awkwardly intimate fashion. He could feel Porthos' warm breath on his cheek and closed his eyes, trying desperately not to think about what else he could feel, and more importantly trying not to react to it.

"My God! Lucien, look at these things." The cry of surprise from below suggested the two men were right beneath them, and had noticed what manner of place they were standing in. 

The taciturn Lucien grunted an inaudible reply, and their footsteps passed further down the passage.

Porthos shifted slightly, bringing his mouth closer to Athos' ear. 

"I think I know who they are," he breathed.

Athos frowned at him, a wasted effort in the almost black hole they were lying in. "Quiet," he breathed back. "They've not gone yet."

The footsteps gradually receded, the occasional rattle of bones suggesting a cursory search of some of the niches was being made, but it clearly hadn't occurred to either man their quarry might have climbed to the upper levels. 

Suddenly, Athos went rigid. "Tell me that's your hand," he hissed under his breath.

Porthos cocked his head enquiringly, and propped on his elbows obligingly waggled his hands, either side of Athos' head and nowhere near his body. "What is it?" he whispered.

"There's something crawling up my leg," Athos said tightly. 

With some difficulty, Porthos turned to look down, then back at Athos. "I think it's a scorpion," he announced.

Athos stifled a brittle noise of involuntary horror. "Do something!"

"Like what?" Porthos whispered back indignantly. "I could try and flick it off, but they ain't gone yet, and we'd still be stuck in here with it, only then it'd be cross. Just - lie still. Maybe it'll wander off."

"That's easy for you to say!" Athos muttered, but he bit his lip and forced himself to lie there unmoving, feeling the progress of the creature's pricking feet up his side. 

Porthos shifted sideways as far as he could so he wasn’t in its way, and both of them watched the silent progress of the ominous shadow crawling higher and higher.

Finally, as the hideous thing approached his shoulder, Athos cracked. “Please,” he whispered, trying not to move, trying not to breathe, convinced that just the frantic beating of his heart would soon be enough to induce it to sting him. “I don’t think – if it crawls onto my face, I don’t think I can keep still.”

Porthos chewed his lower lip. “If I flick it off, we’ll have to move bloody quick. With any luck we’ll be far enough behind those two down there to get out before they realise.” He flexed his fingers and trying to manoeuvre his arm into a suitable position in the cramped space. “Ready?”

Athos swallowed, knowing that if Porthos misjudged it, they could both end up stung. “Do it.”

“One, two – three!” Porthos flicked the scorpion from underneath, sending it spinning into the darkness beyond Athos’ head where there was a faint click as it hit the wall. Both of them were already moving, slithering frantically backwards out of the hole and half-climbing, half-falling down the wall to the ground below.

With the hateful feeling of tiny pricking feet still in his mind Athos was unable to suppress a shudder, and they quickly checked each other over for any lingering creepy crawlies. Giving each other the nod for all clear, they were about to flee the catacombs when Athos realised the two intruders were still down in the hidden crypt, and darted towards the opening.

“Where are you going?” Porthos hissed, torn between making his escape and wondering what the hell Athos was up to.

Athos though, had had an idea. When Hassan had accidentally triggered the mechanism that opened the way below, they’d been unable to find out how to make it stay open and had consequently weighted it down with a heavy chunk of marble. Now, Athos snatched up the block and the counterweights clicked back into position, the section of wall sliding shut. The alarmed shouts of the men beyond cut off abruptly as the heavy masonry sealed tightly back up.

The light level dropped as the torches the men had been carrying were hidden by the wall, and Athos stumbled back up the passage following the light spilling through from the cellar beyond.

Porthos was waiting for him. “That was quick thinking.”

“Like rats in a trap,” Athos said with some satisfaction. “And now I really am going to call the police.”

“That sounds like my cue to leave,” Porthos said hurriedly. “If I could just take my passport, I’ll be off?”

“You really think - ” Athos stopped mid sentence. He’d reached for his gun, only to realise that Porthos had it, and was pointing it at him. He must have palmed it from his holster in the scramble to get out of the burial niche.

Athos looked at him steadily. “You told me you’d never killed a man,” he said. “It would be a shame to start with me, especially so soon after saving my life.”

“I don’t have to kill you,” Porthos pointed out. “I could just shoot you a little bit. I mean, you don’t need all ten toes, right?”

Athos just carried on looking at him, and Porthos sighed, before turning the gun round and offering it back to him, butt first.

After a wary second of surprise, Athos took it. “Thank you.”

“Now can I have my passport?”

“No.”

“What!” Porthos looked indignant, then considering. “Trade you. Don’t you want to know who those men are?”

“You said you didn’t know them,” Athos pointed out. “Why should I believe you now you’ve apparently changed your mind?”

Porthos shook his head. “I’ve never seen them before, but they called each other Lucien and Georges, right? Well I reckon I know who they are.”

“Go on.”

“Passport first.”

Athos produced it from his inner jacket pocket, but held it out of the way. “Information first,” he countered.

Porthos rolled his eyes. “I reckon they must be Lucien Grimaud and Georges Marcheaux. If so, they work for the Marquis de Feron,” he added, when Athos looked none the wiser. 

The light finally dawned. “Ah. Yes. Feron. Allegedly the richest collector of stolen art in the world,”

“Second richest,” Porthos said automatically, and Athos looked at him.

“Interesting.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because rumour has it the only person richer is a man known simply as Richelieu. And the only thing known about _him_ is that he’s French.”

“So?”

“You’re French,” Athos pointed out, waving the passport to illustrate his point.

“Lots of people are French. Doesn’t mean anything,” Porthos objected. 

“So you’re not working for this Richelieu then?”

“Never heard of him,” said Porthos, rather unconvincingly. He held out his hand, and after a second Athos laid the passport in his palm, although he held onto it for a second when Porthos tried to take it.

“Do me a favour and use this to get out of my life?” Athos suggested.

Porthos pulled it out of his grasp, and grinned. “We’ll see.”

They walked back up to the office together, where Athos knelt back down beside Hassan’s body, and sombrely closed the man’s unseeing eyes.

“So, looks like you’ll be needing a new site manager?” Porthos ventured. Athos gave him a black look, and he shrugged philosophically. “Too soon?”

“Hassan was my friend,” said Athos quietly, and Porthos recognised he’d overstepped the mark.

“Right. Sorry.”

Athos gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement, silently accepting the apology. 

“Well.” Porthos cleared his throat. “Be seeing you then.” He headed for the door, and Athos watched him go with a groan of foreboding.

“Oh God I hope not.”

\--


	4. Chapter 4

It was late when Athos finally made it back to Aramis' house, but to his surprise he found they'd waited up for him.

"You were a long time," Aramis remarked as he let him in, then caught sight of Athos' expression. "Is everything alright? What's happened?"

"Hassan is dead," Athos said heavily, sinking into a chair and accepting a drink with a weary nod of thanks.

"What! How?" They both stared at him aghast, and Athos related the whole sorry tale.

“To cap it all,” he concluded heavily, “by the time the police got there and I took them down to the tomb, Grimaud and Marcheaux had somehow managed to find the trick to opening it from the inside that we couldn’t. They were long gone,” he said with disgust. "You know, I was in two minds about this trip we're taking. But frankly now I can't wait to get out of this city."

"We've been looking at the best options," Aramis announced. "It’s about four hundred and fifty miles. Easiest route is to go down the coast to Marsa Matruh, some of which we can do by rail, then hire a truck to take us out to Siwa. The road's allegedly not great, but there is at least a road of sorts and it won't need to be camels."

"What's wrong with camels?" d'Artagnan asked. "It'd be fun."

Athos snorted. "There speaks a man who's never had to travel far by one."

"Or been bitten by one," Aramis agreed, and d'Artagnan glowered at them both.

"Anyway. When do we leave?"

"No reason we can't go soon," Aramis said. "I can arrange cover for my practice in a couple of days, if you're happy to go that quickly, Athos?"

Athos nodded. "The sooner the better. There seem to be at least two other groups with an interest in finding this tomb, and on the whole I'd prefer us to find it first." He sighed. “After what happened to Hassan tonight, I should warn you both this trip might not be without risk.”

This caution was met with the level of scornful bravado he’d expected, and Athos hid a smile. “As you wish.”

"Anyway, whoever they are, they haven't got what we've got," d'Artagnan pointed out, carefully taking the tablet out of its wrappings and laying it on the table. "Nobody's going to find the tomb without this."

“It’s not a given that _we_ will,” Athos reminded him. “It’s a vague description of where the funeral party was intending to go, not a map. And there’s no guarantee they even ended up there.”

“We’ll find it,” d’Artagnan said confidently. “I know we will. I’ve got a feeling.”

“Probably indigestion,” Athos muttered, and d’Artagnan aimed a kick at his ankle. 

A noise from outside made Athos look round suspiciously and Aramis went over to the window and peered out into the garden. "Probably just a branch banging against the glass," he said, closing the window. "You're getting jumpy."

"Do you blame me, after the day I've had?" Athos objected. "I'm going to bed. D'Artagnan, do you mind if I take the tablet with me? I'd like a closer look at it."

"Go ahead." D'Artagnan stifled a yawn. "Think I'll turn in myself."

Outside, Porthos moved hastily back into the shadows as Aramis pulled the curtain across the window. Musing over what he'd overheard, with mounting excitement Porthos realised if he could get his hands on the tablet he might have a hope of getting to the sarcophagus first. He’d been inclined to believe Athos when he insisted the vault they’d uncovered had been empty, but at the same time Porthos had felt there was something he was holding back on, and was glad he’d indulged the impulse to follow Athos home.

Soon a light went on in a room on the first floor, and Porthos guessed it was Athos' bedroom. There was a fig tree growing up the side of the house, and once the lights had gone out downstairs he tested the branches and climbed stealthily upwards.

A minute later Porthos dropped onto the balcony and peered in through a gap in the curtains. Sure enough Athos was inside, sitting at a desk not far from the window and studying the very thing that Porthos was after. 

Oblivious to the fact he was being watched, Athos’ full attention was on the ancient inscription. The first section related to offerings made at the temple where it had been found, and was clearly why it had been made. Most similar records would have been written on papyrus, so the fact this was so carefully inscribed in stone already hinted that it was something out of the ordinary. 

This had been no ordinary funeral party after all. Alexander had been freely accepted by the Egyptians as a true heir to the throne, seen as liberator from a Persian rule that had not accepted their gods. To the ancients, Alexander had been pharoah and immortalised as such in their carvings. No wonder they hadn’t wanted his body to return to Greece, would have wanted it entombed here with full majesty. 

The more Athos thought about it, the more he was inclined to believe they were onto something. Whatever had once been displayed in Alexandria, it hadn’t been the remains of Alexander himself. No, he would have been hidden away with all due reverence to spend eternity in some hidden and protected tomb. And if nobody had found it yet, that meant in all probability it was still intact. 

Athos allowed himself a smile. He was sincere about following this trail for the historical interest, but he was also human, and the phrase ‘gold sarcophagus’ was one of those inclined to make you indulge in undignified excitement. 

The question was, could they find it? The inscription itself was worn and chipped around the edges, and the directions it gave vague at best. He fetched a sheet of tracing paper from his bag and set about making a careful rubbing of the hieroglyphics. Holding it up to the light he was pleased to see some of the more indistinct symbols had come out clearly. 

The funeral party had been headed for Siwa, that much was plain. Alexander had visited the oasis when he first came to Egypt, its oracle had proclaimed him Son of God and legitimised his claim to Egypt. But if he’d been taken back to the temple there for burial surely it would have been more widely known? Siwa had always been a well-populated place, the secret would have been hard to keep. You could translate the inscription as implying they went _via_ Siwa, that it was merely a stop on the journey somewhere else. Which meant the tomb was somewhere out in the Western Desert.

Athos took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. Were they heading out on a wild goose chase? But the interest of so many other parties suggested there was something in it, and it would be hard to keep their travel details a secret.

In a moment of paranoia, Athos fetched his jacket and carefully unpicked the stitching to part of the lining, tucking the traced copy he’d made up inside and pinning it in place. Half embarrassed by his own fears, he hung it back up and prepared to go to bed, stripping off his shirt and pouring some water into the washstand basin.

The cool water on his face made him feel a little better and he took off the rest of his clothes, too tired to go and run a bath at this hour but reluctant to get into bed still feeling hot and grimy.

Flannel in hand, he washed away the sweat and dust of the evening’s exertions, shivering slightly as he remembered the feeling of the scorpion crawling up the length of his body.

The memory in turn triggered the one of Porthos crammed into the tiny space with him, the airless space prickling with tension. 

Athos was conflicted. The events of the evening had left him feeling battered; the unexpected death of his friend, the revelation that not one but two collectors had apparently sent men after an artefact he wasn't even sure existed. But somehow all he could think about was the way Porthos' body had felt pressing down on him, the weight of him, the warmth of him. 

He turned towards the bed, trying to ignore the fact his cock was rising rapidly of its own accord. It was inappropriate, it was embarrassing and – God, he hadn't been this turned on for months. 

Athos pulled back the bedclothes and sank down onto the bed. It was too hot to cover himself and he lay back, trying to resist the temptation to give in and touch himself. 

He lasted about half a minute. Writhing restlessly against the sheet, Athos couldn’t shift the image of Porthos from his mind and knew if he didn’t do something about it he’d never get to sleep. He let his hand drift down to circle his cock and began slowly stroking himself, closing his eyes, the better to pretend he wasn’t. 

Outside on the balcony, Porthos was transfixed. He’d felt mildly guilty watching Athos undress and start to wash, but as soon as he noticed that Athos had developed an erection he hadn’t been able to tear himself away. 

He wondered what Athos was thinking about. Whether it was him. There’d been a moment – Porthos wasn’t entirely sure, but he’d thought he’d felt Athos getting hard when he’d been lying on top of him. It could have been simply an involuntary reaction; for that matter it could have been his imagination, but then there was also the joke Athos had made when reaching into Porthos’ pocket for the figurine he’d stolen.

Maybe he was reading too much into it, but the fact remained that Athos lying bonelessly across the bed, working himself with a languid hand made a very pretty picture. After a minute or so of watching, Porthos gave in and stuffed a hand down his trousers, squeezing his own hot shaft with guilty fingers.

By this point he’d given up on thoughts of creeping in to steal the tablet, which Athos had packed carefully away again rather than obligingly leaving it lying on the table. Right now, at this moment in time all Porthos wanted was to watch Athos come.

To his frustration, just as he was getting into a good rhythm Athos let his hand fall away again and just lay there for a moment, seemingly conflicted about whether to continue.

Porthos stifled a thwarted moan. "Don't stop there," he muttered, but to his satisfaction after a while Athos resumed the motion of his hand, considerably more intently than before.

As a young man, Athos had quickly come to realise he had little to no interest in women sexually. Conversely, it hadn’t taken him long either to recognise that the kind of people forming the establishment of the field in which he worked were not going to look favourably on the kind of scandal caused by making himself available to men with similar inclinations. Consequently, barring a few youthful indiscretions during the war, Athos had resigned himself to spending his life alone. 

For the most part he’d tried to put it all out of his mind and concentrate on other things, and been largely successful – but there was something perhaps about the adrenaline of the evening’s events that had broken down all his careful barriers, and the more he tried not to picture it, the more lurid and insistent the images in his head became. 

Porthos confused him. At once would-be thief and unexpected saviour, his unrepentantly cheerful attitude in the face of danger should have grated, but Athos found himself reliving with relish the memory of being pressed against him, adding guilty embellishments of his own devising. Breathing hard now, he pulled at himself with a rapid stroke, pushing desperately into his hand.

The end came abruptly, as with a sudden final spasm Athos spilled all over his stomach, biting down on the accompanying groan in case he should be heard from one of the adjacent rooms. Still unaware of his audience on the balcony, Athos sat up with a grimace and walked awkwardly across to the washstand to wipe himself down.

Outside, Porthos was caught between the fear of discovery and the fact he was seconds from coming in his trousers. He stayed where he was, frozen in place, one hand clamped around his cock, as Athos cleaned himself up and walked back to the bed, blowing out the lamp as he passed.

Plunged into darkness, Porthos breathed a sigh of relief, edging back away from the window and only now wondering in alarm if he’d been visible from elsewhere, silhouetted against the lamplight beyond. A furtive glance round suggested that he was safely hidden by the trees in Aramis’ garden, and he took advantage of the fact to hurriedly finish himself off.

It didn’t take long, he’d been close to begin with, and the memory of Athos’ naked body gleaming with sweat and rigid in orgasm was enough to push him over the edge. 

Hand still circumspectly down his trousers, Porthos came all over his fingers with a grunt of satisfaction, before wiping the hot and sticky mess off on the broad fig leaves growing around the balcony. 

Part of him wondered whether to hang around until Athos went to sleep and then try and get the tablet, but he reluctantly concluded he’d pushed his luck enough for one night. Slinging his leg over the rail, Porthos climbed out into the tree and slithered back to the ground, letting himself out of the garden by the rear gate, and heading back to his lodgings. He at least knew where they were going and when. There would be plenty of time to catch up with them and steal the tablet on the road to Siwa.

\--

Two days later they were on a train heading west along the coast. As the Nile delta fell away behind them the landscape transformed from green to shades of yellow and brown, the train moving through featureless baked sands and rock faces. Away to the right the coast could occasionally be glimpsed, but with a heat haze hanging over everything, it looked more like a shimmering mirage than anything else.

The carriage was stifling, the faint breeze through the window from the speed of the train the only thing making it bearable. With several days’ travel plus overnights to pay for, Aramis hadn’t bought them tickets for first class and was beginning to regret it. It might not have been any cooler, but at least the seats would have been comfortable and they’d have had a compartment to themselves. 

To take their minds off the discomfort, Aramis and d’Artagnan passed the time in excited speculation about the trip ahead, pooh-poohing Athos’ guarded suggestion that they should perhaps be less open about it.

“I mean, look around you,” Aramis said reassuringly. “Chances are nobody else in this carriage speaks English anyway. Nobody’s paying attention to us.”

Athos wasn’t so sure, but held his tongue. In his experience most of the Egyptians he’d worked with understood at least a little English even if they didn’t speak it, but Aramis was right in that most of the people around them were intent on their own conversations, and were clearly either family groups or gangs of workers, probably heading out to where the railroad was still being extended west. 

After the events in Alexandria he’d been on a sharp lookout for any sign they were being followed, and despite no evidence to suggest this was the case, had had a prickling sense of being watched ever since they’d boarded the train. Letting his friends’ conversation wash over him without really paying attention, Athos scanned the compartment again with restless eyes. 

At the far end sat a pair of Berber tribesmen, faces mostly obscured by their robes and their eyes hidden in flickering shadow as the train passed between endless narrow cuttings hewn through the rock. In the clamorous babble of the carriage, they alone sat in a watchful silence and Athos wondered if it was his imagination or if they really were staring right at him.

He shook off the uncomfortable feeling with an effort of will and turned his attention back to his companions, who were enthusing over the fact that finding Alexander’s tomb would be one in the eye for Howard Carter. 

For the rest of the journey Athos tried harder to join in with their conversation, but he remained preoccupied, and when they finally reached the rail terminus at Fouka and transferred onto a crowded bus he couldn’t help feeling a sense of relief that the two Berbers had disappeared. Maybe Aramis was right, and he was just being paranoid. He hoped so.

\--

Marsa Matruh was a noisy, crowded, cheerful port town, and having secured a room for the night, they set about the task of finding a suitable vehicle that would be capable not just of getting them safely to Siwa along the notoriously bad road, but if necessary further out into the Western Desert. They were travelling light in terms of baggage, but would need to carry food and water for several days, not to mention enough spare fuel to get them out and back again.

They settled on renting an old Ford truck, originally imported for deliveries by a warehouse that had promptly gone bust and been stripped of its assets. The cab could take all three of them at a squeeze, and the open back had plenty of room for supplies – and it was an unvoiced thought in all their minds that if they did happen to find certain large artefacts it would be capable of shipping them back to civilisation.

By the time the deal was struck the sun was well down, and they retired to a small restaurant near their lodgings to take stock and study the map. 

“It took Alexander eight days to get to Siwa taking this same route,” d’Artagnan declared smugly, pouring wine for them all. “Bet he wished he had a truck. This time tomorrow we should be there.” 

“As long as we don’t run into trouble on the road,” Athos noted, and they looked at him in surprise.

“Like what?” Aramis prompted.

Athos shrugged. “Sandstorms for a start. And from what they said the road’s not terribly well marked. If we go off course, that truck’s going to be too heavy for us to pull it out of soft sand. And then there’s the fact that we know of two other interested parties on the trail of this tomb. And at least one of them’s willing to kill for what they want.” 

“You worry too much,” Aramis told him, sitting back comfortably. “We left them all behind in Alexandria. And people travel this road all the time.”

“Well at least we should be able to navigate by the wrecks of the vehicles that didn’t make it then,” Athos drawled, and Aramis threw an olive at him. 

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Other than the fact that one of my friends has just been murdered?” Athos asked dryly. “Other than the fact that I’m currently supposed to be supervising a dig in Alexandria and if the Museum directors get wind of the fact I’ve abandoned my post to go chasing treasure in the desert I’ll probably get fired? Other than the fact that if the _police_ notice I’ve skipped town they’ll probably decide it was me that killed Hassan?”

“Other than all that, yes,” Aramis said, unruffled. He’d known Athos a long time, and was familiar with his moods. If Athos had gone quiet and prickly, it meant he was fretting over something he didn’t want to talk about, and there was no reason not to discuss any of the things he’d just brought up.

Athos looked away. “Isn’t that enough to be getting on with?” he muttered. There were two robed Berbers just turning the corner at the end of the street and he frowned. Coincidence? They weren’t an unusual sight after all. He sighed. He was starting to wonder how much of his conviction that they were being followed was down to him _wanting_ to be followed. He realised he’d been half-expecting to catch sight of Porthos all day, and was cross with himself as he recognised a faint sense of disappointment that he hadn’t.

“You know,” said Aramis conversationally, “one of the interesting things about Siwa that doesn’t really get mentioned a lot, is that because it’s been so isolated and self-contained for thousands of years, they have a lot of customs rather unique to themselves. A form of marriage between men, for example. Frowned on now of course, but historically, male relationships were considered as valid as any other, more so, in some cases. They say boys from the right families could attract higher bridal prices than women.”

Athos threw him a cold look. “And you’re telling me this why exactly?”

“Thought you might be interested,” Aramis said blithely. 

“I’m an archaeologist, not an anthropologist,” Athos retorted. 

“My mistake.” Aramis poured him more wine, and grinned. 

\--


	5. Chapter 5

Provisioned and fuelled, the next morning they set out on the long drive to Siwa. On paper it was comfortably do-able in a day, but it didn’t take them long to realise that comfortable wasn’t a word that was going to apply to anything else about it. Athos’ main fear had been one of getting stuck in desert sand, but the ground was hard, stony and unforgiving and inside an hour they were all feeling thoroughly bruised and shaken.

They had overtaken a few camels and riders plodding patiently in the direction of the oasis town, but it was almost midday before they sighted the first other vehicles on the road, as two trucks laden with produce travelling towards the coast passed them at speed, leaving them choking in a cloud of dust and sand.

“Thanks for that,” d’Artagnan said weakly, spitting grit out of his mouth and re-winding the scarf around his face for the hundredth time that morning. 

“Let’s stop for lunch,” Aramis suggested. “Much more of this and my teeth will have been rattled too loose to eat anything.”

It was another half an hour before they reached a spot that Athos deemed suitable, a rocky outcrop with an overhang that provided a dark spill of shade from the noonday sun.

Thankfully they piled out and sprawled on the ground, yelping as the sharp gravelly surface proved to be just as hot as the truck’s interior.

With the engine turned off an eerie silence descended. With no birds, no animals, no people or vehicles to break the stillness, after the bustle of Cairo and Alexandria it came as something of a shock to the system.

“It feels like we’re in the middle of nowhere,” d’Artagnan sighed, digging his hand into the loose surface and letting the coarse sand spill through his fingers.

“We are in the middle of nowhere,” Athos pointed out, tipping his hat forward over his face and lying back. “I like it. It’s peaceful.”

Aramis was sharing out the food, and laughed. “Maybe we should leave you out here to commune with the lizards.”

There was no answer from Athos, who had either fallen asleep or was pretending to. Aramis and d’Artagnan talked quietly as they ate, with d’Artagnan filling him in on some of the history, of both Alexander in Egypt, and the country as a whole. 

“Egypt’s always been a place where the Gods seem closer,” he mused. “Alexander would have been used to that, the Greek Gods were an interfering bunch. They’d have been very real to him. And you can feel it, can’t you? Out here, I mean. Such a wasteland – it’s like you can feel the raw magic of the place, just – breathing, in the wind.”

Aramis looked at him with a certain amused surprise. “I didn’t take you for such a romantic.”

D’Artagnan blushed. “Sorry. I’m sounding ridiculous.”

“Not at all.” Aramis stared up at the cloudless sky. A tiny dark dot, circling way up in the blue, might have been a hawk. It was the first wildlife they’d seen since passing the camels way back on the road. “It does feel like a world away from England.”

As they sat there, contemplating the vast emptiness of the eternal desert, a sound reached their ears that suggested they weren’t quite so alone as they’d thought.

“Is that an engine?” d’Artagnan frowned, as the rumbling resolved itself from a faint note on the wind to a mechanical growl.

“Probably another one of those produce trucks,” Aramis said. “Siwa must supply quite a large area, the towns along the coast here don’t have a lot of fertile land for crops.”

“Doesn’t sound heavy enough for that.” D’Artagnan scrambled to his feet and climbed out of the gully to a point where he could look down at the road. To his surprise, the vehicle passing their resting place wasn’t a truck but a motorcycle, a sturdy looking relic of the war. He waved automatically, assuming that any traveller on this road would be likely to stop here as they had, in the only shade for miles, but the rider swept past without so much as turning his head.

D’Artagnan watched them vanish into the shimmering heat along the road, and shrugged. 

“Someone on a motorbike,” he announced, slithering back down to where Aramis had decided it was too hot to indulge his curiosity and had stayed where he was. “In a hurry, too.”

“We should probably get a move on ourselves,” Aramis noted, stifling a yawn. “You’d better wake Athos up.”

D’Artagnan looked briefly alarmed at the prospect of this, but was saved by a mumbled “I’m not asleep,” from beneath Athos’ hat. Athos sat up with a groan, and made a hasty meal washed down with unpleasantly warm water from the can.

“You want one of us to drive the rest of the way?” Aramis offered as they headed back to the truck. Athos shook his head and climbed back up behind the wheel, and Aramis laughed. “Do you trust anybody?” he chided.

“If I answer that truthfully you’ll only be offended, so I shall keep my own counsel,” Athos said, with a glimmer of a smile. 

“Suits me,” Aramis announced, settling back with one arm out of the window and closing his eyes. “Wake me when we get there.” 

\--

After the starkness of the desert, cresting a rise to find the green swathe of Siwa stretching out before them came as both a relief and a shock. Athos brought the truck to a halt and they sat there for a while just staring down at the sprawling oasis. Whereas most were smallish affairs, perhaps a handful of scrubby palms gathered around a single water hole, Siwa stretched out as far as the eye could see. Miles of waving palms gave way to a huge lake, and rising from the trees was a sandstone fortress, that in the rays of the setting sun looked like it had been carved more by the wind than the hand of man. 

Below them the town began where the trees met the sand, and threaded out along streets thronged with people and animals, ringing with the sound of music and laughter, and as the sun sank lower, rising over all of them, the call of the muezzin echoing out from minarets across the town.

“We made it,” Athos murmured, sounding faintly surprised.

“Of course we did.” D’Artagnan, sandwiched sweatily between them, couldn’t wait to get out and stretch his legs and urged Athos on down the final stretch of road. 

The coolness beneath the trees was very welcome, and as they stretched stiff limbs and unloaded their bags from the truck, finding supper and somewhere to sleep was far higher on the agenda than starting the search for the tomb. 

Despite having come so far, it was a faintly daunting prospect to realise how far they had yet to travel, not to mention the sheer scale of the problem facing them. What had seemed a simple matter of following directions back in Alexandria had now been put into perspective by hours of wearying travel. A hundred tombs could have been lain just feet from the road, and gone unnoticed amongst the featureless desert rocks, and the mood over dinner was somewhat subdued.

Their table was outside in a public square beneath a spreading fig tree, and they were lingering over a last glass of date wine when Athos suddenly sat up, staring across the street at two robed figures passing by on the other side.

"Athos? What's wrong?" D'Artagnan asked in surprise.

"Those men. They were on the train," Athos said. "And at the port, last night."

"How can you tell?" Aramis laughed, inclined to dismiss Athos' suspicions as paranoia. "You can't even see their faces."

"That's what worries me," Athos retorted. "Berbers don't normally cover up to that degree. It could be anyone under there," he added under his breath, watching the two figures walk unhurriedly out of sight. Neither had Porthos' build, but Athos judged it could easily have been Grimaud and Marcheaux. 

"You're just tired and jumpy," Aramis diagnosed. "You should have let one of us take a turn at the driving."

"Maybe you're right." Athos rubbed sore eyes, and sighed. "I think I'll turn in." 

\--

In the dim interior of the rooming house, the door to d'Artagnan's room clicked open and a figure slid cautiously out into the passage. Porthos looked up and down the corridor, listening for footsteps, then turned his attention to the lock of the room next door.

Following the group at a discreet distance to Marsah Matruh, he'd been thwarted in his efforts to go through their baggage the previous night by the fact that all three men had shared a single dormitory room. 

Deciding that the most unobtrusive method of shadowing them to Siwa was to get there first, he'd ensured his arrival several hours ahead of the truck, and taken up a discreet position in a cafe where he could watch the road in from the north. It hadn't been hard to tail them while they arranged for overnight accommodation, and once they were safely occupied with dinner, Porthos had taken his chance.

He'd drawn a blank in the first room, and was hoping the tablet would turn up in one of the others, reasoning that it was probably too heavy for them to carry about with them as a matter of course.

The lock clicked and he pocketed the wire, knocking quietly first to make sure the room was unoccupied and then pushing quickly inside. 

The room was dark, its narrow window opening onto an alley, the mud-brick wall of the next building barely two feet away. Porthos lit the lamp and quickly started rifling the bag at the foot of the bed. He came up empty, and straightened up with a groan. One room left to search, then he'd be forced to concede they were carrying it with them. It wasn't beyond his capabilities to break in again once they were all asleep, but it became a lot more risky.

Porthos had taken a single step towards the lamp with the intention of blowing it out when the door to the room unexpectedly swung open behind him.

He had barely a second to react, and in the space of turning round realised that what he said would depend on whose room he was in. If it was Aramis coming in, who didn’t know him by sight, the chances were he could blag his way out of it with an apology for being in the wrong room. If it was Athos – well that had other possibilities. If it was d’Artagnan, that created a whole new complication of its own.

The man coming in looked up in surprise at finding his room occupied and came to an abrupt halt. It was Athos, and Porthos gave him a broad smile which was met with a scowl of startled anger.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Porthos told him cheerfully. It wasn’t entirely a lie, he reflected, eyeing the heavy bag hanging from Athos’ shoulder and speculating as to its contents. 

“Do I look stupid?” Athos swung the bag onto a chair in the corner of the room and Porthos forced himself not to follow it with his eyes. “If you wanted to see me, I’ve been sitting outside for the last two hours. You could have come over. But instead you seem to have chosen to break into my room.” 

“I didn’t think you’d want your friends hearing what I had to say.” On past form, Porthos guessed Athos’ next move would probably be to pull a gun on him, so he moved fast, closing the distance between them and clasping Athos’ hands earnestly between his own. “In the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” 

Porthos stared at him, knowing that his next move was a massive gamble and might equally result in getting him shot. But he’d never been able to resist high odds. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I had to see you again.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Athos demanded, pulling his hands irritably out of Porthos’ grip, but he looked flustered rather than confused and Porthos sensed he’d scored a hit. 

“I think you know exactly what I mean,” Porthos said in a low, intent voice, moving deliberately forwards so that Athos was forced to retreat to avoid him. His back hit the wall and he caught his breath, putting his hands up to stop Porthos’ advance.

“Are you mad? I don’t know what you think you’re doing in here, but - ”

Porthos had to derail him from that train of thought, and fast. He leaned in past Athos’ raised palms and kissed him hard on the mouth.

The breathy yelp of protest this produced was so far from genuine outrage that Porthos almost laughed. Instead, he drew back only far enough to look Athos in the eye, judging his reaction. Athos didn’t look angry, or disgusted. He looked almost trapped.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Athos breathed, as if Porthos had stolen his voice along with his ability to move. 

“I want you,” Porthos said boldly. “And I think you want me.”

“No - ”

Athos had barely got the word out before Porthos was kissing him again, more intently this time. Athos’ palms were braced against his shoulders as if to push him away, but there was no strength behind it. When Porthos pulled back this time, Athos was breathless, but still clinging to a shred of propriety.

“I don’t know what sort of man you think I am, but you are sorely mistaken,” he managed, sounding shaken. “I suggest you get the hell out my room before I - before I - ”

This was essentially what Porthos had been angling for, an opportunity to leave with nothing worse than a slap in the face, but now something held him there. He realised his guess about Athos’ inclinations really had been on the money, and while his brain was telling him to quit while he was ahead, certain other parts of his anatomy were waking up and demanding to stay.

“You think I didn’t notice?” Porthos murmured, cutting across Athos’ stammered and unconvincing outrage. “In the catacombs? You think I didn’t notice how hard you were?”

“Oh – God.” Athos stared at him in mortification, but Porthos shook his head and pressed in closer. 

“You wanted me,” Porthos said with a quiet conviction. “You still want me. And I want you. Where’s the harm?”

“Where’s the - ?” Athos gaped at him. “You _are_ mad. You’re insane. We could be – we can’t. What you’re talking about. It’s – we can’t.”

“Why not?” Porthos dipped his head and brushed a kiss to the line of Athos’ jaw. “Who’s going to know?”

“I’d know!” Athos protested, and Porthos laughed, switching sides and kissing Athos on the other side of his jaw, noting with interest that Athos, who was a robust sort of chap, hadn’t actually done anything actively discouraging like punch him in the face yet.

“Well yes. That is rather the point.” Porthos let the tip of his tongue flicker across the pulse in his neck, and felt Athos catch his breath.

“Nobody has to to know,” Porthos promised in an undertone, still pressed meaningfully against Athos’ body. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“If you think you can blackmail me - ” Athos suddenly pushed Porthos sharply away from him, and Porthos looked hurt. 

“You think I’d do that?”

“In a heartbeat,” Athos declared, recovering something like his normal self-possession. Porthos sensed the situation slipping away from him and knew he had to act quickly. He needed Athos overwhelmed and not thinking, operating on instinct not logic, lest he start remembering all the scurrilous reasons Porthos might actually have for being here. The fact that blackmail had never been on the list stung slightly, but Porthos conceded he was hardly in a position to complain.

Porthos shook his head. “This is just between us. I promise. You think I want people knowing about this any more than you do?” He moved in again, sliding an arm round Athos’ waist and drawing him closer. “Look, you never have to see me again after tonight if you don’t want to. But we could _have_ tonight. If you wanted it.”

He could tell Athos was weakening, could see him losing the fight against temptation in front of his eyes. One more careful nudge in the right direction and Athos would be his, and Porthos suddenly realised just how much he wanted that.

“How long’s it been?” Porthos murmured, still holding Athos against him but doing little more than nuzzling the occasional encouraging kiss against his stubbled cheek. 

Athos looked down, unable to meet his gaze. “A long time,” he admitted in a whisper, and Porthos knew he had him.

“Athos.” He tilted Athos’ face back up and kissed him, softly at first, then with increasing ardour as Athos finally responded in kind. It was as if, having made the decision to go with it, Athos had abandoned his reservations wholesale, and rather than the tentative and perhaps inexperienced lover Porthos had expected, his arms were suddenly full of a man who clearly knew what he wanted.

They stumbled across to the bed, already discarding shirts and boots, dropping together in a tangle of limbs and sprawling across the mattress. Porthos rolled Athos onto his back and straddled him, leaning down to kiss him again, hungry for the taste of him. They were both hard, pushing against each other shamelessly.

Athos felt fingers working at his belt and closed his eyes, surrendering to the moment. He’d tried to tell himself that he didn’t want this, need this, that he could live without it, but in just five insistent minutes, Porthos had exposed the lie.

He could feel the rest of his clothes being pulled away, the barest breath of air from the window caressing his naked body. A moment of pause, then the weight of Porthos on top of him, naked too now, and Athos couldn’t prevent the quiet moan that escaped his lips.

“Athos?” Porthos whispered his name and Athos opened his eyes, finding Porthos looking down at him with a new hesitancy. He realised Porthos was concerned his passivity was merely endurance, and felt a strange jolt inside that he should care.

“Yes.” Athos slipped his arms around Porthos’ neck and drew him down against him. “Yes. Anything.”

It was a largely incoherent answer to the unasked question, but Porthos smiled and relaxed against him. “I want you,” Porthos breathed, trailing biting kisses across Athos’ chest and up his throat, teasing an earlobe with his teeth before licking into his mouth possessively. “I wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”

“Wasn’t I holding a gun on you at the time?” Athos asked dryly, and Porthos laughed.

“I like a man who can handle himself.”

“So I see.”

Porthos laughed louder, running his hand up Athos’ cock appreciatively and shifting down in the bed so he could briefly take him into his mouth.

Fingernails down his back were an unexpected turn-on, and also served to suggest that teasing Athos like this might result in neither of them lasting long enough to actually fuck each other. Porthos looked up again, considering the options. 

“Have you got anything we could use to, er - ?” Porthos let the thought tail off, but Athos took his meaning with an admirable practicality. 

“In my bag.” 

Porthos hastily levered himself off the bed and went to look. Lifting the flap of Athos’ canvas bag the first thing he saw was the inscribed tablet lying carefully wrapped in a scarf, and for a second he froze. Before Athos could notice anything wrong, he forced himself to keep looking, fingers finally closing around a small tin of Vaseline.

Accepting with a certain resigned amusement that he was about to pass up an opportunity to steal the thing in favour of sex for a second time in the space of a week, Porthos returned to the bed, tossing Athos the tin with a lewd wink. Athos flushed and muttered something about dry skin in a desert climate. 

Suspecting Athos was probably only speaking the truth, Porthos just grinned and kissed him. “May I?” he murmured and Athos nodded, self-consciously. In a way it helped that they were virtually strangers, and there was a confidence in the movements of Porthos’ hands that allowed Athos to finally let go of his lingering apprehension and relax into the pleasure of it. 

When Porthos took him, thick and hard and sensuously slow, Athos was assailed by an unexpected sense-memory, recalling the pungent smell of aviation fuel, the feeling of rough brick under his hands, of warm hands wrapped around his hips. The intensity of it made him catch his breath, a memory thought long buried, as was the owner of those capable hands, shot down somewhere over Alsace. Life expectancy had been a standing joke amongst the young pilots, in that there wasn’t one. 

Consequently, they’d taken their pleasures where they could find them, drinking hard and fucking hard to take their minds off a tomorrow that might never come. There’d been plenty of young men, and older ones too for that matter, who’d been happy enough to find solace in the arms of their own sex, but in the end Athos had held back, finding it too painful when yet another lover had failed to return, and in the world outside the air force after the war he’d told himself there was no place for it.

But this – how had he forgotten this? The feeling of being taken like this, of being filled and possessed – there was a freedom to be found in surrender, and he gave himself up to the sheer animal carnality of it all.

Porthos fucked him hard but not roughly, finding space for plenty of kisses in their otherwise frantic coupling. He delighted in the way Athos returned his passion with an equal fervour, and they screwed each other to a panting, shuddering standstill, finally collapsing into each others’ arms in sated exhaustion. 

Afterwards, words felt unnecessary and both men were secretly relieved that the other seemed disinclined to make conversation. The silence was restful rather than awkward though, and as Athos’ breathing gradually evened out, Porthos realised he’d fallen asleep. 

Carefully, he slid out of the bed without disturbing him and quickly got dressed again. After that it was the work of a moment to retrieve the tablet from Athos’ bag and tuck it carefully into the pocket of his own jacket.

For a second Porthos hesitated, gazing down at Athos as he slept, and finally heaving a regretful sigh.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, and let himself quietly out of the door.

\--


	6. Chapter 6

Athos woke gradually, consciousness seeping back by inches. For a moment the tangled sheets and musky warmth of the room held the lingering memory of an embrace, and he stretched out indulgently. 

This brought with it the discovery he was alone in the bed and Athos sat up groggily, a vague weight of unease settling in his stomach at the thought of what he'd done the night before. It had been reckless, and he'd have quite liked to blame it on all the date wine he'd drunk, but knew in his heart he'd merely given in to shameful temptation.

He experienced a brief guilty sense of relief that Porthos had already gone, meaning he wouldn't need to acknowledge what they'd done. This lasted exactly as long as it took his gaze to fall on his bag, lying open on the chair. 

A cold, awful suspicion gripped him and he scrambled out of the bed, almost falling headlong to the floor in his haste. Porthos had searched his bag last night after all, at his own invitation, but he was certain - almost certain - that he remembered Porthos closing it again afterwards.

Praying he was mistaken, Athos hunted through the bag in increasing desperation, finally upending it carelessly on the bed as if a fairly weighty stone tablet might somehow be hiding under a handkerchief. The scarf he'd wrapped it in was still there, but of the tablet there was no sign, and Athos slowly subsided onto the bed feeling sick. 

There was only one conclusion to be drawn - Porthos had taken it. And the accompanying knowledge came with it, that last night had been a pack of lies. Porthos had never wanted him, he'd only needed a distraction. And Athos had fallen for it.

"You fool," he whispered, dropping his head into his hands. "You bloody fool." 

Mortified, Athos wondered how he was ever to face the others - how he could ever explain it - then abruptly remembered the copy he'd made and leapt to his feet, snatching down his jacket from the peg and feeling with a dizzying sense of relief the crackle of tracing paper beneath the lining. 

He pulled it out with shaking fingers and finally felt his breathing return to something like normal as he established that it was indeed the drawing he'd made, that Porthos hadn't taken this as well. All was not lost, Athos told himself, although as he got dressed and braced himself to confess the theft to the others, it was with a heavy and bitter heart.

\--

His knock roused no response, and Athos eventually found Aramis and d'Artagnan already at breakfast in the square, occupying the same table as the night before.

"Athos!" Aramis raised his coffee in greeting, then frowned. "What's wrong? You look terrible."

Athos pulled out a chair and sat down with a sigh. "I've been robbed," he admitted. "We - have been robbed. The tablet was taken from my bag last night while I slept," he said carefully. "I'm sorry," he added, addressing d'Artagnan. "I should never have been so arrogant as to think it would be safer in my possession."

"Oh - well, I can hardly profess any better record in hanging onto artefacts," d'Artagnan admitted with a smile, thinking worriedly how drawn Athos looked, and how hard he must be taking it. "Could have happened to any of us. Do we still have the copy you made though?"

Athos nodded, and they both looked relieved.

"D'Artagnan's right, there's no need to beat yourself up about it," Aramis said commiseratingly. "What's done is done. And you were so tired last night, it's no wonder you didn't hear anyone break in."

"Meaning I should have listened to you and let someone else do some of the driving?" Athos asked acidly, and Aramis sighed.

"That wasn't what I meant at all, I wasn't having a dig." Aramis tried to change the subject. "Still, I guess you were right."

"About what?" Athos looked up, confused.

"Yesterday you thought we were being followed. I put it down to you just being paranoid, but I guess you were right. Do you think it was those men we saw?"

"Oh." Athos folded his arms. "No. It was Porthos du Vallon."

They stared at him. "You seem very sure. How do you know that?" asked Aramis.

Athos hesitated. "I thought saw him lurking about the place last night," he said finally. 

"And you didn't think to warn us?" d'Artagnan objected.

"I wasn't sure. Like Aramis said, you already thought I was being paranoid," Athos muttered. 

"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter," Aramis ventured. "It's not like it'll do him any good. Probably just on the look out for things he can sell on, right?"

Athos shook his head dismally. "Once upon a time Porthos du Vallon was one of the most promising young archaeologists in France," he said. "He really did once work for the Louvre Museum. I don't know what happened - just greed, perhaps. But there's no reason to suppose that he can't translate that inscription as well as we can."

D'Artagnan slapped the table, making them jump. "Then what are we waiting for?" he demanded. "We've got the copy haven't we? We need to get on with it. No good waiting around for him to get there first. I'll settle up, meet you at the truck."

He disappeared at speed, and Aramis laughed. "That boy has entirely too much energy. Don't let him rush you, you've still got time for breakfast if you want?"

Athos shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

"Are you feeling alright?" Aramis asked, thinking that Athos looked almost ill.

"No. I'm angry. And - and humiliated," Athos blurted. "He's made a damn fool out of me."

"You've got no reason to feel that way. Like d'Artagnan said, it could have happened to any of us. According to you the man's a notorious and skilled thief. The tablet was locked in your room, what more could you have done?"

For some reason this only made Athos look more miserable than ever, and Aramis gave up and patted him vaguely on the shoulder. "Come on. D'Artagnan's right, let's get this show on the road."

\-- 

Their first port of call was, as Alexander's had been when he first came through Egypt, the Temple of the Oracle. Dedicated to the Sun God Amun, the crumbling edifice was located on a steep rock platform that towered above the rest of the oasis and could be seen from miles around.

Already sweating in the morning sun, the three men climbed the steep path up to the temple, gaining the slight shade of the roofless first hall with some relief.

"So." Aramis looked around with slightly less enthusiasm than his companions. "I was expecting something a little more - ornate."

"Heathen." Athos paced through to the inner hall, taking it all in with an appreciative eye. "You're standing on the spot of thousands of years of history. It wasn't just Alexander who came here you know. Supposedly Hannibal did too."

"Ah. Chap with the elephants?" 

"That's him. And earlier, Hercules too. And Perseus." Athos' voice faded as he walked further in, and Aramis frowned at d'Artagnan.

"They weren't real though, were they?" he asked in an undertone.

D'Artagnan grinned at him. "Can you prove they weren't? They feel real, standing here. Don't you think?"

"I think you're both barmy," Aramis retorted, but as it was the most animated Athos had been all morning, he was willing to let it pass. He and d'Artagnan followed Athos through another stone doorway into a smaller chamber, with a view across the oasis and out to the desert beyond.

"This was the sanctuary," Athos said, leaning back on the sill and watching them squeeze through the entrance. "Where Alexander received confirmation he was the son of God."

"A Greek God though, surely?" Aramis asked.

"Zeus - Amun - both sides saw them as the same." Athos shrugged. "But he stood here. Right here, on this spot."

"And heard the voice of God?" Aramis asked disbelievingly. 

"Most likely the voice of the priests of the temple," Athos smiled. "Chap arrives in your country with a big army, makes sense to tell him what he wants to hear."

"Cynic." D'Artagnan looked vaguely disappointed. "So, what now, do we ask the Oracle for guidance, or what? Because I'll be honest, I was hoping that inscription would make a bit more sense when we were actually on site."

Athos unfolded the translation they'd been developing since Constance's first outline sketch, and they all frowned at it. 

"The all-seeing vision of the Oracle shall rest ever on Alexander's dwelling place, between the celestial bodies of heaven," Athos read out. 

"Is it referring to a carving, perhaps?" Aramis wondered, eyes roaming over the walls. Various gods and beasts stared implacably back at him.

"Maybe we should pray for a vision," d'Artagnan declared. 

Athos shook his head slowly. "The Oracle's wisdom was received as speech, not visions," he mused. "It makes no sense."

"Something the Oracle could see then?"

Athos stared at him. "D'Artagnan, you're a genius."

"I am?"

"Possibly." Athos spun round to look out of the window opening behind him. "What if it's saying you can actually see the location of the tomb from here?"

"If it is then we're sunk before we've begun," Aramis said gloomily. "You can see half the oasis and hundreds of square miles of desert from here. Could be anywhere."

"They wouldn't have buried him close, this place was densely inhabited even then. They'd have wanted something more remote. What does the rest of it say? Between two celestial bodies?"

"They were big on astronomy," d'Artagnan suggested. "What if finding it depends on being here during a specific conjunction or something?"

"It doesn't say that though," Athos pointed out. "In fact it specifically says the Oracle can always see it." 

"Amun was a sun god, right? That's a celestial body." Aramis said, feeling out of his depth but also like he should contribute something. Athos stared at him, and he fidgeted. "Was he not? Am I wrong?"

"No, you're right. Very right. And the thing is - " Athos leaned dangerously far out of the window, shading his eyes against the sun. "This wasn't the only temple to Amun in Siwa." To their relief, after a moment he slid back in again with a groan of frustration.

"All this sandstone looks the same. Where's the map?" 

They spread the map out on the dusty floor, the most detailed one they'd been able to find of the region. "Here." Athos jabbed at a spot not far from where they were standing. "Umm Ubayda. Would have been quite impressive in its day."

"Would have been?" Aramis asked, hastily grabbing Athos' belt as he heaved himself back up onto the windowsill and leaned out again.

"It got blown up for building stone about forty years ago," Athos said. "But there's a bit of it left. Yes, that must be it down there. Do you see?" 

"I'll take your word for it. That's one celestial body then. Is there a temple of the moon or something to go with it?"

Athos shook his head and to Aramis' relief slithered back down to the floor. "No. That's where it all falls down a bit," he admitted. "It could be referring to a point visible between the two temples, but you'd still need a third point to triangulate from."

"So maybe it's not a third temple we're looking for then," d'Artagnan theorised. "How about the actual sun? Like - sunrise, or sunset or something?"

"Possibly," Athos granted. "Still not something that's permanently fixed though." He looked out again over the vista below, raising the level of his gaze gradually to the horizon. And stared.

"What does that cliff look like to you?" he asked, rather tightly. Aramis and d'Artagnan squeezed in beside him, and looked where he was pointing at a far range of hills. 

"A wave?" d'Artagnan ventured, after squinting a bit. "A cresting wave."

"A claw?" Aramis suggested. Athos glared at them both.

"Or a crescent moon?" he prompted hopefully. They both shaded their eyes and stared dubiously across the desert. 

"If you insist," Aramis said, in a tone that suggested he was humouring him. 

"It does!" Athos protested. "Probably would have been a lot more defined a few thousand years ago too."

"The hills of - Khonsu?" Aramis read, finding the range on the map. Athos immediately looked triumphant, and d'Artagnan shook his head in disgust. "Let me guess, Egyptian god of the moon?" Aramis laughed. "So - we want somewhere between those hills and the temple down there then?"

They all crammed back into the narrow window opening and tried to work out what lay between them. Most of it was lake, but far out on the horizon, away into the desert, a line of smudgy outlines suggested a further range of hills lay out there.

"What does the map say?" Athos asked wishing he'd brought his field glasses up from the truck.

"That's funny," said d'Artagnan after a moment's frowning search. "They're not shown." 

"Too far away?" Athos crouched down beside him, and smoothed out the edges.

"No, they should be right about here I reckon," d'Artagnan said, circling a blank section of map with his finger that merely indicated the featureless shifting sea of desert sand.

"Odd. But it's a start, and our best lead. We need to see what's out there," Athos said. "We'll ask around, if there's hills there might be water, and if there's water there'll definitely be a track of some kind."

"You are looking for Alexander?"

The unexpected voice behind them made them all jump, and they swung round to find an old Arab man standing in the doorway, regarding them with something like pity.

"How did you know that?" d'Artagnan asked in astonishment.

"They all come here, looking for Alexander," he shrugged, turning away. 

"Can you tell us what those hills are called?" Athos asked quickly. "Out beyond the lake, right on the horizon."

"No hills," said the man without turning round. "Only sand and death."

"Well, but, wait a minute, yes there are, you can see them," Athos protested. "Over there, look." He pointed, but when he looked back the man had gone, and they all rushed out after him into the central chamber. 

"Wait. Please. We just want to know the way out there," Athos said, in Arabic this time. "Can you help us?"

The man looked back at them. "I cannot," he replied in English. "Never have I sent a man to his death. I will not begin now. To follow in the path of death is not to be advised. You may find it one you cannot come back from." 

"What you said about people coming here to look for Alexander," Athos persisted. "Did you mean in general, or recently? Has there been someone else here asking? Today?"

The man muttered something and shook his head, sweeping out through the next room and out into the open. The sunlight after the shelter of the walls was blinding, and although they all piled quickly after him, no trace could be found and it was as if he'd simply vanished into thin air.

"Well he was a cheerful sort," Aramis sighed. "Do you think Porthos got here ahead of us then?" But Athos was already striding away back down the hill, and they hurried after him. 

"Athos? Your Arabic's better than mine - he didn't just say something about a curse, did he?" d'Artagnan asked nervously, speeding up to keep pace.

"Alexander the Accursed," Athos said without looking round. "It was how the Persians referred to him. To them, he was a devil out of the west. They said he had horns."

"Horns!" It came out as a yelp, and d'Artagnan cleared his throat sheepishly. "He was just a man though - right?"

"Yes, of course. The horns may have come from here, actually, Amun had ram's horns, and Alexander was sometimes depicted with them. But yes, to the Persians - he was hated." 

"I thought he was seen as a liberator?" Aramis too had caught up now.

"By the Egyptians. The further he went east - not so much. Those that held out against him - he put whole towns to the sword. Sold their women and children into slavery. Had his enemies impaled - or crucified." Athos gave them a wry smile. "You don't conquer most of the known world by being nice." 

"But definitely no curse?" d'Artagnan checked, feeling this was an important thing to be clear on.

"Not that I've ever heard of." Athos pursed his lips. "That's not to say the people who eventually entombed him didn't feel the need for a little added protection," he added, and d'Artagnan shuddered.

"He had a male lover didn't he?" Aramis asked idly. Athos glared at him, but Aramis just met this with a look of innocent enquiry.

"Hephaestion, yes," Athos said grudgingly. "Come on, we're wasting time," he added quickly, as Aramis would clearly have said more. "We've got a long way to go before sundown." He increased his pace, marching off ahead of them and pointedly ending the conversation.

"What's eating him?" d'Artagnan wondered, and Aramis gave him a bland smile.

"Can't imagine."

\--

In the village below, their first attempts at securing a guide met with a blank refusal by the inhabitants to even acknowledge the hills in question existed. 

What they'd assumed to be merely an eccentricity of the man they'd met in the temple proved to be a wider problem, and the three men traipsed from fruit stall to coffeehouse to knife-grinder in a fruitless search for information.

They finally made some headway in a small barber's shop when Aramis decided enough was enough, and experimented with bribery instead of argument. In front of the covetous eyes of the proprietor he steadily counted out money until the man suddenly recalled the hills' existence. 

Even so, he remained wary, and flatly refused to accompany them as a guide. 

"You could offer me all the money in your Bank of England and still I would not go there. It is unlucky for me to even speak of it. But - as you gentlemen seem to have set your hearts on it, for the right price I will tell you how to get there."

The route he described was a long one, further than it had looked from the temple and fuel would be a concern, assuming the truck could make it at all. By the sounds of it there was no formal road, only a track used by wandering tribesmen and camel traders, and navigation would be more by luck and landmarks than any actual identifiable road surface. They marked it out as best they could on the map, with various annotations about what to look for.

"Is there water out there?" d'Artagnan asked, concerned about how much weight the truck would have to carry and received a nod.

"There is a small water hole once you reach the hills, yes. Is good."

"How do you know, if you've never been there?" Athos asked, irritated by the inherent contradiction. "Presumably from the same people who were busy talking about how unlucky it was to talk about it?" 

"Oh I'm sure it's not unlucky for the locals," Aramis grinned. "They can probably wander around out there with impunity. It's only passing treasure hunters who can't be told about it, isn't that right?"

The man followed this with some difficulty and gave an exasperated shrug. "Is your funeral."

"Cheerful sort, aren't you?" d'Artagnan frowned. "What's so damn dangerous about it, anyway?"

The barber shrugged. "I cannot say. No one has ever come back to tell of it."

Athos sighed. "Apart from all the camel traders and tribesmen and what-have-you? No, alright, forget it. Thank you for your assistance." He strode out of the shop again, still clearly in a bad mood.

"You don't think there's really anything to worry about do you?" d'Artagnan wondered aloud as they made they way back to the truck. 

"Superstitious mumbo jumbo," Aramis pronounced confidently. "Of course not."

"Athos?"

Athos shrugged. "Whatever's out there, I'm not afraid of it. It's not like I have anything to lose."

"Athos?" Aramis asked quietly, hanging back and letting d'Artagnan walk ahead out of hearing. "Is everything alright?"

"Why shouldn't it be?"

"Because I've seen that look on your face before. It's the one that says you don't care if you don't come back."

Athos looked up at him in slight surprise, then finally mustered a thin smile. "And yet so far I always have," he murmured.

"True," Aramis conceded. "You sure there's nothing you want to tell me though?" 

Athos' expression went cold. "Such as?"

"I just thought there might be something you might like to get off your chest. Look, Athos, we've known each other a long time - "

"No," Athos interrupted, looking away. "It serves no purpose. Come on, we're wasting time."

Aramis reached out and caught his arm. "Fine. You don't want to talk, that's your prerogative as a stubborn bastard. Just - know that I'm your friend, Athos. I'll always be your friend. No matter what."

Athos still wouldn't meet his gaze, but eventually he nodded. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I appreciate it. Now can we stop talking about things that don't need to be talked about, and get a move on?"

He marched off.

\--

As the truck headed off in a cloud of dust, two men emerged from the shadow of a market stall and made their way unhurriedly into the recently vacated barber's shop.

"I am closed." The barber looked up irritably from where he was counting and re-counting the money Aramis had paid him.

Marcheaux closed the door behind them, and lowered the blinds. "That's good. We won't be disturbed then."

"Who are you? What do you want?" Realising that neither man was exactly here for a shave the barber started shoving the money into his pockets with a nervous haste.

Grimaud made a knife appear from his sleeve and held it up thoughtfully to catch the last shaft of light falling between the blind slats. "You're going to tell us exactly what you told those men who just left. If you know what's good for you."

Marcheaux patted the barber on the shoulder with a mocking sympathy. "I guess it's just not your lucky day."

\--

Ten minutes later they let themselves out again, Grimaud discreetly wiping blood from his blade.

"Was it really necessary to kill him?" Marcheaux ventured. "He'd told us what we wanted to know."

"And this way, he can't tell anyone else," Grimaud said shortly. He looked sideways at him, eyes glittering sharply beneath an untidy fall of dark hair. "Problem?"

"No." Marcheaux shrugged. "What about them?" A group of Egyptian labourers stood waiting for them with camels and digging tools. They'd been hired in Marsah Matruh, on the basis of being strong in the arm and disinclined to ask questions. 

"You know, I learned an interesting fact about the ancient tomb builders," Grimaud remarked conversationally. "To stop them being able to talk about what treasures had been placed inside, or how to get into them again - when it was finished, they were often walled up inside."

Marcheaux took his meaning. "Oh." He studied the oblivious men with a vague pity, then brightened. "So we won't need to pay them then?"

\--


	7. Chapter 7

"Damn it!" D'Artagnan's foot went out from under him in the soft sand and he fell flat on his face, narrowly missing the back of the truck. Aramis wordlessly offered him a hand up, which he accepted with a grunt. "Don't say it."

"I didn't say anything," Aramis protested, looking amused. 

"Athos wouldn't have got us stuck," d'Artagnan supplied gloomily.

"To be fair, you don't know that," Aramis said reassuringly. "There's barely any way of telling where the road ends and the dunes begin, any one of us could have gotten stuck."

"Any one of us didn't though," said Athos, appearing round the end of the truck with an armful of sacks. "Here, put these under the wheels, it should give them some traction. D'Artagnan, you're lightest, get back behind the wheel."

As d'Artagnan did as instructed, Aramis and Athos took hold of the tailgate and prepared to heave.

"You could have been kinder," Aramis murmured. "He's embarrassed enough as it is."

"And yet which of us is pushing? How much kinder do you want?" Athos retorted.

The wheels spun, and they both found themselves spluttering around a shower of sand. Eventually though the sacks did their job and the wheels found enough bite to haul the truck back onto the more compacted track. 

"Do you want to drive instead?" d'Artagnan offered with a sigh. Athos shot a look at Aramis, and shook his head.

"No. You're doing fine."

D'Artagnan brightened, and Athos and Aramis resumed their seats beside him in the cab.

They got stuck three more times that day, each time worrying that this would be the moment the heavy truck got bogged down for good. By the time they made camp for the night, all three of them had managed to get stuck at least once, which at least meant honour had been satisfied as far as driving ability went. 

Their campsite was situated not far from the curiously crescent-shaped cliff that they'd noted from the temple, and they made the trek across the sand for a closer look.

Standing at the base of the cliff it was far higher than they'd realised from Siwa. A massive face of sandstone carved into a concave overhang by the desert storms, up close it really did look more like a breaking wave about to crash down on them.

D'Artagnan shuddered. "I don't like it. It makes me feel dizzy."

"It's incredible." Aramis ran his hand over the pitted surface. "How many thousands of years must it have taken to carve this just with the wind?"

"Carved by the sand, not the wind," Athos pointed out. "The speed some of the sandstorms reach, they'd take the skin off your body if you were caught outside in one." Perversely the ghoulish thought seemed to cheer him up a little and he was in better spirits as they made their way back to the camp.

There hadn't been a breath of wind all day, but as the sun sank in the west a skittish breeze rose from somewhere, and it proved a devil of a job to get a fire going. Finally they managed to get it to take hold, and by the time they were eating supper the moon was rising in the east - for a few minutes perfectly framed in the curve of the cliff.

"No wonder it was sacred to the moon," Aramis murmured, and they watched the spectacle almost reverently until the moon drifted higher. The wind was gusting coldly now, and they wrapped themselves firmly in their blankets. Once the sun was down the sand soon lost the heat of the day, and they were grateful for the warmth from the embers of the fire.

Just as they were drifting off to sleep, huddled in the lee of the truck for some protection from the increasingly strong wind, a strange and eerie noise had them all sitting up again in alarm.

It started as a low whistling that could just have been the shifting of the loose sand, but that gradually built into a hooting shriek, rising and falling like all the spirits of the dead had been let loose to roam the desert.

"What the hell is it?" d'Artagnan asked in a hushed voice, as if afraid of drawing attention to them. "Is it an animal? A bird?"

"It's the wind," Athos realised suddenly. "It's the wind against the cliff. Blowing through the curve like a funnel, and echoing out again. It's amplifying it somehow."

D'Artagnan breathed a secret sigh of relief. "It's the creepiest thing I've ever heard." 

"No wonder this area's got a bad reputation," Aramis said. "Hearing that at night'd be enough to keep most people away, especially if they didn't realise what it was."

"Then here's to being made of sterner stuff," Athos muttered and lay down again, although he conspicuously didn't object when the others inched closer before settling back down themselves. Harmless or not the noise was deeply unsettling, and there was an unspoken comfort in lying closer together.

The wind blew most of the night, only dying down with the dawn and they resumed their journey tired and irritable, having got precious little sleep. The blown sand had got in everywhere too, making them uncomfortable on top of everything else. 

"I hope there's a big water hole," d'Artagnan mused dreamily. "I'm going to have a swim."

"Not before we've drawn all the drinking water we need you're not," grinned Aramis, who was driving. "I'm not drinking tea made from your bath water."

Athos had spent most of the day preoccupied with his own thoughts, but as the far range of hills gradually emerged from the smudgy haze of the landscape, he seemed to come back to himself.

"We should go carefully," he advised. "We may not be alone out here."

As they drove onwards a cluster of palm trees became visible at the foot of the hills - and that wasn't all that came into view.

"Are those houses?" d'Artagnan asked in surprise. "Do people actually live out here?"

As they got closer though this proved not to be the case, as the sandstone buildings they'd seen from a distance were all lying in ruins. 

"At least it offers us some shelter," Athos suggested. "Why don't we make camp inside one? Open to the elements, but if that wind gets up again tonight we'll be glad of it."

They chose one not far from the edge of the trees, the inviting glint of water between the palms raising the mood immediately. Having set out their gear they made their way down to the edge of the waterhole - hardly big enough to be granted the term lake but a very welcome sight nonetheless. Having refilled their water cans, as Athos and Aramis settled for a wash d'Artagnan held true to his word, stripped off and plunged head first into the water.

"I hope he doesn't scare the crocodiles," Aramis said loudly as he surfaced again, and was rewarded with a look of sheer horror until d'Artagnan realised he was being ribbed.

"Very funny." D'Artagnan splashed at them, causing Athos to retreat grumpily further up the shore, muttering darkly about schoolboys.

Having failed to convince either of them to join him, d'Artagnan finally waded out again and dried himself off. It was pleasant under the trees, but the urge to explore finally outweighed their fatigue from the long and uncomfortable journey, and they wandered through the abandoned settlement and towards the face of the cliff that loomed over the oasis.

Somewhat to their surprise, it didn't take long to make an astonishing discovery. Rounding an outcrop they came unexpectedly face to face with a pair of enormous lionesses. Carved into the cliff, they guarded an ornate gateway, the symbolic entrance portal an expanse of undecorated blank stone.

Athos looked round, studying his compass. "We're too far away and low down to see it from here, but I think they're facing Siwa."

"I must say I didn't expect it to be this easy," Aramis said, sounding surprised. He looked at Athos and d'Artagnan's expressions and sighed. "It's not, is it?"

"Unlikely," Athos told him with a smile.

"Probably a false facade," d'Artagnan added. "Distract people from looking for the real entrance."

"Just a red herring then?" Aramis nodded gloomily, but Athos slapped him on the back. 

"Cheer up. That it's here at all means we're on the right track. What other reason could there be for going to all this trouble? Come on, there's still a couple of hours of daylight left. Let's see what else is hiding here."

They followed the cliff left and south, and a few minutes later their next discovery was in some ways more surprising than the first. Propped against one of the crumbling walls was a motorcycle.

"What the devil? How did that get here?" Aramis asked in surprise.

"Same way we did presumably," Athos said dryly. "Lighter than us, probably didn't have as much trouble either."

"I never heard another engine," Aramis pointed out. "And sound carries out here."

"Could have been ahead of us," Athos said. "Or come through last night. Wouldn't have heard anything with that racket going on."

"We don't know how long it's been here," d'Artagnan offered. "It looks ancient, it might have been here for years."

Athos shook his head. "It's old, but it's in good nick. And besides, if it had been here long it would have been buried by the sand." He drew a fingertip idly across the saddle, and examined the few grains of sand it picked up. "I'd guess this hasn't been here much longer than we have." He took out his gun, checked it was loaded and tucked it away again. "At least now we know for certain we have company."

It was hard to pick out footprints in the soft sand, but they followed a possible trail back towards the base of the cliff and soon found an opening. Hemmed in by walls of rock to either side, they followed a natural cleft around several turns until it opened out into a wide, roughly circular area open to the sky above. Perhaps originally a cave whose roof had fallen in, one wall was taken up with another of the impressively carved gateway facades, gods and monsters alike looking on in stern and silent disapproval. 

Despite such natural and man-made wonders, the thing that drew their attention was the figure standing with his back to them, studying the carvings intently. Their approach had been made in silence, their footsteps muffled by the soft sand and he apparently hadn't heard them coming because when Athos called out, he jumped.

"You!" Athos stopped so suddenly the others almost walked into him. He'd half-expected this, but seeing the man again still came as a shock.

Porthos spun round, and seeing who it was immediately recovered his composure. "Athos!" He spread his arms wide and grinned. "You made it. It's good to see you again."

In answer, Athos strode over and punched Porthos full in the mouth.

"Ow! Christ!" Porthos fell back, more out of surprise than anything, and regaining his balance stood there massaging his jaw. Athos just stared at him, breathing hard and realising he didn't have the first idea what to say. There was nothing he could say, not with the others listening. Belatedly he realised provoking a confrontation might have been unwise, but to his relief Porthos at least seemed to have been sincere about wanting their liaison kept secret. 

Porthos didn't seem to have any more idea than him about what to say, but finally shrugged. "Okay. I guess I deserved that."

Their helpless staring match was finally interrupted by d'Artagnan, who it turned out had more than enough to say for everybody.

"Hang on. _This_ is Porthos?" he demanded. Porthos looked up and beamed at him.

"D'Artagnan! Hello!"

Athos looked between them in confusion. "You know each other?"

"We've met," snapped d'Artagnan shortly, hands on hips. "Except for the part where he told me his name was Nassar and that he was a bloody camel trader!"

Porthos grinned. "You know, I did actually sell you some camels. So technically..."

"And were they yours to sell me in the first place?" d'Artagnan enquired frostily. Porthos shrugged.

"Ah. You've got me there."

"Wait. _You_ stole d'Artagnan's artefacts?" Athos asked, finally catching up. "Do you know how much trouble he got into because of you?"

Porthos looked mildly shamefaced. "Did he? That was never my intention."

Athos glared at him. "Like you ever gave it a damn thought. Where are they?"

"No longer in my possession," Porthos admitted. "So I can't give them back if that's what you mean."

D'Artagnan glowered at him. "How about I just give you a smack in the mouth as well for good measure then?" he offered, and Porthos narrowed his eyes. 

"First one was free. Second one comes back," he said flatly, hands curling into defensive fists and perhaps for the first time realising that it was three against one.

"Well you can at least give us the tablet back," said Athos, cutting across the argument before it could get nasty. 

Porthos looked innocent. "What tablet?"

Rather than reply, Athos simply drew his revolver and pointed it at him. 

"You won't shoot me," Porthos said confidently. Athos promptly adjusted his aim so the gun was now pointing at Porthos' crotch, and he swallowed. 

"I really suggest you don't try me," Athos advised. 

"Oh, _that_ tablet." Porthos brightened. "You should have said." He drew it out of his jacket and held it out. "I only borrowed it. Didn't think you'd mind."

"D'Artagnan, take it," Athos ordered, keeping his gun trained on Porthos just in case. "And take his gun while you're at it."

"Oh, come on!" Porthos protested. "You're not really going to leave me unarmed out here are you?"

"On the whole I'd prefer not to have to worry about being shot in my sleep," Athos said coldly. "I strongly suggest you stay out of our way." Finally holstering his own gun, he turned to leave with the others, only to hesitate when Porthos called after him quietly. 

"I meant what I said." 

"I find it hard to believe you mean anything you say," Athos retorted, annoyed with himself for engaging, but somehow not quite yet leaving.

"It really is good to see you again."

Athos turned round with an incredulous expression. "And you expect me believe that? On the contrary, I should imagine our appearance here has come as something of a shock to you."

"I left you the copy didn't I?"

Athos looked surprised, then wary. "You're bluffing. It's a reasonable assumption to make, that we'd have taken a copy."

Porthos shook his head. "It was in the lining of your jacket." 

Athos froze. "How the hell do you know that?" he breathed.

"I saw you put it there," Porthos admitted. "I watched you make it. So, you see, I could have taken it, at the same time. But I didn't. I really did hope you'd end up here too."

Athos had gone white as a sheet, having worked out what else Porthos must have seen if he'd watched him make the copy. "How long have you been spying on me?" he managed.

"Spying's such a harsh word, don't you think?" Porthos asked, trying for a smile. 

"I can think of a few harsher." Athos controlled his voice with an effort. "Stay away from me Porthos. Do you hear me? If you know what's good for you, you stay the hell away from me."

He marched out and Porthos watched him go, puffing out a resigned sigh and sucking on his swollen lip. 

"Well. That went about as well as expected."

\--


	8. Chapter 8

"Did that not - look quite promising?" Aramis ventured finally, having followed Athos as he'd stormed back to where they'd made camp and thrown himself down on the sand, hunting irritably through the case of provisions until he came up with a bottle of whisky. "The carvings I mean. In that cave. Are we just - leaving him there?"

"Probably another false entrance," Athos muttered, taking a swig straight from the bottle.

"Oi. We've all got to drink from that you know," Aramis objected, throwing a tin mug at him none too gently. Athos fielded it neatly, and poured himself a generous measure.

"Isn't it a bit early?" Aramis persisted, finally sitting down next to him and looking worried and exasperated in equal measure.

"I'm not forcing you to drink any," Athos pointed out, and downed it. "Where's d'Artagnan?"

"Gone to have another look at that first gate we found." Aramis settled back on the rugs and gave Athos a sidelong look. "You know, it was interesting to see him at last. This Porthos of yours."

"He's nothing to do with me," Athos said immediately, pouring himself another measure that disappeared as quickly as the first.

"Well, you know what I mean."

"You might find him less interesting if I told you he'd been spying on your house."

Aramis sat up again. "What? When? Why would he be spying on me?"

Athos shrugged, then sighed. "He wasn't. He was watching me."

"Ohhh." 

Athos gave Aramis a suspicious look, but he didn't say anything further, just reached for a mug of his own and waggled his fingers for the whisky bottle. 

"I thought it was too early for you?" Athos jibed, handing it over. Aramis just smirked.

"I've got a feeling I'm going to need it before we're done here."

\--

They passed an uneventful night and rose the next day feeling confident they would soon locate the entrance to the tomb. Several hot, frustrating and baffling hours later, by the time the sun was dipping below the hills once more they had to admit they seemed to have reached a dead end. 

They'd scoured the length of the cliff face and found no further ancient remains. They'd explored the ruins and come up blank. They'd even tried scaling the cliffs to see if anything was more obvious from a higher vantage point, but the crumbling sandstone was treacherous, and evidence of several old landslides made them wary.

"Pity we haven't got a plane," Athos sighed. "Flying over the place might be a smarter option. It could take us years to find it at this rate."

"Let me see the tablet again," d'Artagnan insisted, and Athos handed it over with a shrug. They'd all pored over it hoping for some further clue that Athos might somehow have missed in taking the copy, but it remained impenetrable. 'Seek eternity in the embrace of the earth' was the best translation they could come up with, which as Aramis pessimistically pointed out could just mean they'd buried him. 

"Maybe we're in the wrong place," Aramis sighed, flopping down in the shade and taking a long drink from his canteen.

"I don't think so," Athos countered. "I think those two ornamental gateways tell us there's something here."

"Are we sure they're only ornamental?" Aramis persisted. "What if it's a double bluff, and there's something there after all?"

"Well without heavy duty equipment or blasting powder, we're not likely to find out." They'd examined both gates again in minute detail, and there wasn't a crack big enough for a centipede to slip through in either façade. They were assuming there was nothing but the blank cliffside behind them, but it was impossible to tell. 

"At least he's not having any more luck than us," d'Artagnan pointed out, nodding towards the oasis. Porthos was sitting on a rock on the far side of the pool, throwing pebbles into the water and looking glum. He'd kept his distance from them, as they had from him, being aware of each other's presence as they moved about the place but firmly pretending the other party didn't exist.

Athos said nothing, but promptly turned his back so he was facing the other way. 

"Why don't we have some supper?" Aramis suggested. "We'll feel better for some food. Maybe inspiration will strike."

"How much have we got left?" d'Artagnan asked anxiously, and Aramis laughed.

"Don't worry, we're not going to starve yet. And there's always dates."

D'Artagnan groaned. "I'm getting really fed up with dates."

"There's something else growing over there," Athos pointed out. "No idea what they are, but probably not poisonous."

"Probably?" Aramis grinned, as d'Artagnan went off to investigate.

"Well, if he eats one first, I'll guess we'll find out."

They'd returned to their camp and got the fire going when d'Artagnan returned with an armful of fruit. 

"You've been busy," Aramis smiled, taking one of the heavy fruits that had spilled onto the sand and raising his eyebrows. "Now that's exotic."

"What is it?" Athos asked idly, not particularly interested.

"Mango." Aramis took out a knife and cut one open, slicing through the flesh and handing it to him. "Try it."

Athos took it as warily as a cat, but when the other two started eating eagerly enough he grudgingly sampled it. "It's a bit - perfumed," he said, wrinkling his nose but continuing to eat. "Refreshing though," he conceded. "I've never had one before. I've never noticed them growing along the Nile?"

"Not native," Aramis told him. "Indian sub-continent, I think."

"I didn't know you were into botany," Athos smirked. 

"I'm not. I'm into food." 

Athos looked thoughtful. "India, you say? Alexander reached India. Coincidence, do you think?"

"I don't believe in coincidences. I'll take it as a sign," Aramis announced cheerfully, sloshing the water can experimentally, and frowning. "We're going to need this filling up if anyone wants tea."

D'Artagnan looked up suspiciously into the ensuing silence. "Why's everyone looking at me?"

"It's your turn," Athos told him.

"No it isn't!"

Aramis just held out the can with an expectant smile, and he sighed. "I hate you both." 

It was dusk by now, and the going was treacherous underfoot the closer d'Artagnan got to the water hole, the sand twisted with tree roots. Going slowly and carefully, he lowered himself to the water line and was filling the container when the sound of voices floated across the water to him. Assuming at first it was some trick of acoustics and just Athos and Aramis, he caught the coarse bray of a camel and looked up in surprise.

Crawling carefully around the edge of the pool, he crept up through the trees until he could look out on the source of the noise. A group of men and camels had arrived and were making camp. Taking them for nomadic traders, he was about to call out cheerfully when he noticed the two white men clearly directing operations, and kept his mouth shut. Looking more closely he noticed picks and shovels being unloaded, and crept silently back to the camp.

"We've got company," he hissed.

"What do you mean? And where's the water?" Aramis asked.

"Never mind the water. Over on the far side of the oasis. Men, maybe seven or eight of them? A few locals and two westerners, they were speaking French to each other."

Athos looked up in alarm. "Wait here," he ordered, and slipped off into the dark before they could object.

Ten tense minutes later he was back, carrying the water can. 

"It's Grimaud and Marcheaux," he reported grimly. "And they look like they mean business. How the hell did they find us here?"

"Porthos?" D'Artagnan suggested. "Maybe they're working together?"

Athos considered this, then shook his head slowly. "Honestly, I don't believe so. I'm fairly sure they're working for different masters, it would be a conflict of interests. And - he did help me, before. Against them. I'd probably be lying in the morgue with Hassan if it wasn't for his intervention."

"Do you think we should warn him?" Aramis suggested. "That they're here, I mean?" 

Porthos' camp was further out than theirs, near the base of the cliff. Chances were he wouldn't have heard the new arrivals.

Athos gave him a stony look, but Aramis met his gaze placidly. "If what you say is true, they're as much a danger to him as to us," Aramis pointed out. "And you did take his gun." Nodding at the handsome pistol that had been riding at Athos' hip ever since.

Athos held out stubbornly for several seconds, then got to his feet with an exasperated groan and stalked off into the darkness without a word.

He made his way through the ruined village, muttering under his breath. This was going to be excruciatingly awkward and he'd much rather have left well enough alone - except Aramis, damn him, was right. Regardless of what else Porthos had done, he had probably saved Athos' life back in Alexandria. He at least deserved to be warned.

Athos could see the flicker of Porthos' campfire now and rounded the broken stump of a wall, clearing his throat to announce his presence.

Porthos jumped, instinctively grabbing a burning branch from the fire and thrusting it at him.

"Woah! Woah. It's only me." Athos backed off a pace and Porthos lowered the makeshift weapon, looking relieved, then surprised, then sullen, all within the space of a couple of seconds. He threw the branch back into the flames and sat down again.

"You know, I'd find it a lot easier to stay away from you if you could manage to restrain yourself from wandering right into my camp," he grumbled.

"Grimaud is here," Athos said shortly and Porthos leapt back to his feet, all business.

"What? Where?"

"Far side of the oasis. Arrived not long ago by the looks of it. Marcheaux is with him, and a number of labourers. I don't know how they found this place, but it's reasonable to assume they know they're not alone here."

Porthos took all this in, and slowly resumed his seat, nodding. "Thanks for the warning."

Athos nodded silent acknowledgement, and was about to thankfully make his escape when Porthos called after him.

"Athos. Wait."

Athos turned back and glared at him. "No. Look, you saved me, okay, I admit, I owe you. It doesn't mean I care."

"Whatever." Porthos shrugged. "I was going to say - any chance of my gun back?"

Athos could feel his face burning, and was grateful it was dark. He took refuge in acidity.

"Oh, let me think - no?"

"Come on," Porthos pleaded. "You're not really going to leave me defenceless out here are you? Look, on my honour, I won't use it against you or your friends - "

"Your honour?" Athos spluttered. "Regardless of what you may like to pretend, you are no gentleman and frankly your word means less than nothing to me."

Porthos sighed. "Fine. Then what about your honour? Are you really willing to let me run up against them unarmed? Last time I saw those two I dropped a bookcase on them - for you, I might add. I'm guessing they won't exactly be ecstatic to see me again."

Athos mulled this over for a while, then reluctantly handed Porthos back his gun. He didn't really think the man would use it against him - or maybe he just didn't want to believe it, but he wasn't going to examine that thought too closely. 

"Thanks. Appreciate it." Porthos nodded gratefully to him, and Athos turned to go again. "Athos?"

"Now what?" Athos looked back impatiently. Porthos grinned. 

"You wouldn't have warned me if you didn't care."

Athos made a noise of utter disgust and strode off into the night. Porthos stared after him thoughtfully, then turned his attention to his gun, checking it was loaded and still in working order.

"Welcome back, my gorgeous," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the barrel. "I hope the nice man looked after you?"

\--

Athos resumed his seat by the campfire without a word, ignoring the curious looks of his companions.

"Gave him his gun back then?" Aramis prompted, sharp eyes noting it had gone.

"Apparently."

"So - we're trusting him now?"

"Not remotely."

"Trusting him not to kill us then, at least?"

Athos shrugged. "If I'm wrong and we all wake up dead, you can sue me. Is there any whisky left?"

Aramis handed the bottle over, tutting disapprovingly. 

"Any movement from our friends over there?" Athos asked, changing the subject.

"We thought we heard someone moving about nearby just now," d'Artagnan volunteered. "I reckon they saw our fire and sent someone over to see what was what. Didn't try anything though."

"We should take it in turns to stand guard tonight," Athos decided. "I don't know what they're up to, but I don't imagine it will take them long to make their move."

\--

Marcheaux was standing before the lioness gate, hands on hips and a suspicious expression on his face. Burning torches stuck into the sand at intervals lit the whole space with a flickering radiance that made the carvings look as if they were moving. He shuddered, keeping his thoughts to himself.

"I don't understand," he said instead. "I can't imagine they missed this. Have they located the tomb somewhere else?"

"Not by the sounds of it." Upon arrival Grimaud had dispatched the nimblest of their men to sneak up on the campfires they could see in the distance, to report back on numbers, and any overheard snatches of conversation. "They seem to still be looking."

"So what's this then?" 

"Let's find out." Grimaud gestured to two of the men waiting nearby. "You. And you. I want a hole in that thing, and I want it now."

There was some hesitation and muttering at this. The men might not have been subject to the superstitions surrounding the place that had stifled tongues in Siwa, but the idea of breaking into an ancient tomb in the dark still gave them pause for thought.

Grimaud drew a gun out of his coat and pointed it at them. "Let me tell you how this goes, you have a choice. What are you more afraid of? Stories for children, or me? I can tell you which one will be more immediately fatal."

Grudgingly, the men approached the facade, casting nervous looks at the two enormous feline sculptures framing the stylised gateway. They seemed to snarl in the torchlight, and it took Marcheaux producing a shotgun before the men finally set their tools to the fine stonework.

Marcheaux gave Grimaud a smug look, and he snorted, holstering his own pistol. "Size isn't everything you know."

Satisfied that work was now progressing, they wandered back to where the other men were setting up camp. 

"I was hoping by the time we got here, la Fère's party would have done all the hard work," Grimaud muttered. "Seems if you want something doing you always have to do it yourself."

"Could we really not have waited till morning?" Marcheaux ventured. He'd had a chance to look at some of the hieroglyphics carved around the gateway, and they promised all kinds of dire consequences for the disrespectful. It was a comfort to know that the men who'd made them were all long dead, but he'd still have felt more at ease doing this in daylight.

"What's the matter, you going native?" Grimaud laughed scornfully. "I promise you the only thing going bump in the night round here will be the sound of falling masonry. I'm going to find that sarcophagus if I have to tear down the whole damn hill."

\--

"What _are_ they doing?" Aramis cocked his head enquiringly, as the repetitive clink of metal against stone rang out across the oasis.

"I'll find out," d'Artagnan offered, and scrambled to his feet before either of them could stop him. 

"No - don't - be careful," Athos sighed, letting his outstretched hand fall back to his lap, as d'Artagnan ducked out from the shelter of the stone walls and vanished into the trees. "Impetuous little idiot."

Aramis grinned. "He reminds me of you, ten years ago."

"Poor sod." Athos settled back, searching for the pencil he'd dropped. He was sketching a map of the oasis and the ruins from memory, to go with drawings he'd already made of the two ornamental gates, feeling that at least somebody should be bringing a level of academic rigour to proceedings. 

A few minutes later they both jumped as d'Artagnan skidded back into the camp. Athos glared at him.

"You're going to get yourself shot if you're not careful," he complained. "And not by Grimaud."

"So what's he up to?" Aramis enquired.

"They're trying to break through the gateway," d'Artagnan panted. "The one facing out across the desert." 

Athos looked indignant. "Bloody vandals."

"Be embarrassing if they find the tomb entrance," Aramis pointed out, mostly to annoy Athos, but he just shook his head. 

"That monument's nothing but part of the cliff, I'd stake my reputation on it."

"Yes, well, you might be."

"Look on the bright side," d'Artagnan broke in with a smirk. "If they do find anything, the chances are Porthos will nick it shortly afterwards."

\-- 

The weathered face of the false gate was looking decidedly the worse for wear, cracks spreading across the ornate carvings and much of the decorative facing stone wrenched away to reveal a course of heavier building stone behind. Convinced this hid the way in they were searching for, Grimaud doubled the number of men working on it, ignoring their pleas for a rest or to wait until morning.

"If we find an entrance passage it's going to be dark inside whatever the time of day," he pointed out to Marcheaux, who conceded the point. He'd learnt not to contradict Grimaud when he had that driven look in his eye, unless he wanted to add to his collection of bruises. Which to be fair occasionally he did, but not tonight.

They'd retreated to the camp again, sharing a bottle of wine while the hired hands did the grunt work, but looked up sharply as the cries of the workmen abruptly changed in pitch - from encouragement to triumph to confusion - and then, unexpectedly, to screams of fear and agony.

Loosening one head-sized stone at about waist height, the men had managed to work the end of a crowbar into a crack, and levered it out to thump down into the sand. Behind it was what they took to be a black void and the man with the crowbar cautiously put his hand inside, to get a grip on the adjacent stone and pull it out.

What had seemed at first to be simply a hole now proved to be something else entirely, and his hand sank up to the wrist in a weirdly tangible blackness. Crying out in horror, the man snatched his hand back, only to find the blackness came with it, sticking to his hand and spreading rapidly up his arm like a stain. 

Unstoppered, darkness poured steadily from the hole, somewhere between oil and smoke, pooling on the sand and rising up in wraith-like coils, shapes forming and dissipating in the torchlight.

All was confusion, and the men scattered away from the hole in panic only to run into Grimaud and Marcheaux running up with the rest.

"What's going on?" Grimaud demanded roughly, aiming a kick at the man now writhing on the sand. "What's all this noise?"

A babble of explanations reached him, ghosts, demons, clawed beasts - frantic and shaking fingers pointed him at the gate, which now displayed no trace of the shadows that had issuedforth.

"What happened to him?" Marcheaux asked, and there was enough of a strained note in his voice that Grimaud looked round, finally paying attention to the man still screaming on the ground. His hand and arm had been eaten away, leaving withered bones and flesh, and he was tearing at his shirt with his good arm. The cloth fell open to show the desiccation was spreading even as they watched, creeping up his throat and across his chest while he begged for help, eyes rolling frantically.

\--

On the other side of the lake, the sound of screams caused consternation.

"What the hell was that?" d'Artagnan asked in alarm.

"Sounded like an industrial accident to me," Athos drawled without glancing up from his notebook. 

Aramis got to his feet, and Athos did look up then, reaching out to grab his arm. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm a doctor Athos, someone might need help."

"Have you forgotten the part where they're assassins?" Athos enquired. "Have you forgotten the part where they killed Hassan? Do you suppose they would be pleased to see you?"

Aramis stared at him for a moment, then slowly sat down again. "I'm - sure they've got adequate medical expertise on their own team," he murmured.

Athos gave him an amused look, but said nothing. 

For a while the distant howling continued, until suddenly a pistol-shot echoed off the cliff face and all went ominously quiet.

"Well, at least the screaming's stopped," Athos observed, and Aramis punched him on the leg. "Ow! What?"

"I know you Athos. You're not nearly as much of a bastard as you like to pretend."

"Blab all my secrets why don't you," Athos muttered, casting a look at d'Artagnan. 

"Don't tempt me," Aramis shot back, and Athos returned the punch, making Aramis yelp and rub his leg.

\--

They stared down at the corpse with a grim fascination. Half the face had been eaten away, but with death the spread of the affliction had stopped. Grimaud re-holstered his gun. 

"Am I going to regret asking what could do something like this?" he asked.

Marcheaux shook his head, at a loss. "I've never seen anything like it. Some kind of acid, maybe? A booby-trap left by the tomb builders?"

Grimaud nudged the body disinterestedly with his foot, then looked back towards the gate, his gaze narrowing. "Oh, you're kidding me."

Marcheaux followed the line of his gaze and together they approached the hole, using the discarded crowbar to lever out a few more stones. The truth was unavoidable though. Behind the stone infill of the ornamental arch was nothing but the rough and unbroken cliff face.

\--

Tucked in the lee of a wall on the far side of the oasis, Porthos blinked smoke out of his eyes as the fire flared and guttered. The night before had been utterly still, but now a breeze seemed to have arisen from somewhere, making the shadows lengthen and dance eerily. 

He shuddered, telling himself it was just the cold wind, then froze. There was no wind. Frowning, he turned this way and that, trying to feel the direction of the breeze on his face, but the warm night air was quite still. 

The fire was burning steadily once more and he shrugged, dismissing the rogue gust - until he realised the shadows were still moving.

Transfixed, he stared at the wall. Dark shapes seemed to be crawling over it, just on the edge of focus.

Porthos shook himself, telling himself firmly it was his imagination and throwing more wood on the fire, poking it into a brighter blaze. The shadows seemed to recede a little in the light, but he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

"Who's there?" he called out angrily, but there was no answer, just the quiet hissing of sand in the - 

There was still no wind. 

As soon as he realised this the sound stopped, which was somehow creepier than anything that had gone before.

"You're imagining things," Porthos muttered to himself, pulling the blanket round him. "Don't be an idiot." Wishing briefly that he had someone else to talk to, knowing that company would make the night seem a lot less threatening. 

He'd heard the distant commotion earlier but kept his distance, deciding that a single gunshost probably wasn't the sign of a pitched battle. Things had fallen quiet again after that, almost too quiet, and he shifted restlessly. 

There was a patch of shadow on the wall opposite. It looked rather like an enormous cat, he decided. That was okay. He liked cats. Except this one seemed to have quite large teeth. And claws. And - and that wall was right in front of the campfire and there was literally nothing that could be casting that shadow.

In the shifting darkness, in the region of what might, at the right angle, have been the profile of a pointed feline head, an eye like an ember blinked open.

\--

"Windy tonight," Aramis remarked, watching the way the fire flickered and flared wildly.

"Is it? I hadn't noticed." Athos looked up, and Aramis frowned, reconsidering his statement. He was about to reply when Athos abruptly held up a hand for silence, drawing his revolver.

"I can hear something," he breathed. "There's something swishing through the sand out there."

Tensely, the three men stared at the gap in the crumbling wall until suddenly a massive shape loomed out of the darkness.

"Woah! Hey! Don't shoot! It's only me." Porthos emerged from the shadows, blanket draped round his shoulders like a cape.

Athos lowered his gun in disgust. "What the hell do you want?"

Porthos looked distinctly embarrassed. "This is going to sound stupid, but - would you mind if I slept with you guys tonight?"

They stared at him in surprise. "Why the sudden attack of loneliness?" Aramis asked, when it became apparent Athos wasn't going to reply. 

Porthos looked more uncomfortable than ever. "There's - something out there," he said finally. 

"Grimaud?" 

"No. Something else. Something not right. I can't explain it, but I keep - hearing things. Getting glimpses of things, out the corner of my eye. Look, I know this sounds daft, and trust me I wouldn't be asking if I didn't think - well - maybe there's safety in numbers."

"You mean you've spooked yourself," Aramis laughed. "Well, I have no objections, but I can't speak for the others."

D'Artagnan gave Porthos a hard stare, but then shrugged. Everyone looked at Athos. He glared back indiscriminately, then groaned. 

"Fine."

"Thank you." Porthos gave him a relieved smile and came to sit near the campfire. "I could help," he offered. "I could take a watch?"

"I wouldn't trust you to watch a pot boil," Athos said coldly. Porthos shrugged unconcernedly and lay down, wrapping his blanket around him.

"Suits me. I'll get a good night's sleep then, won't I?"

"I'll take first watch if you like?" d'Artagnan offered. "I'm not tired."

Athos nodded, trying not to let his eyes settle on the humped shape of Porthos. He had his back to him, but Athos felt unreasonably like he'd sense if he was being watched.

After a while Athos lay down himself, a careful distance away. He took a while to fall asleep, staring out into the shadows beyond the open doorway, wondering what could have spooked Porthos so badly that he'd swallowed his pride and asked to join them. It could be a trick - but somehow Athos didn't think so. Porthos had looked genuinely mortified at having to seek sanctuary with them and it must have been a last resort - and Porthos didn't strike him as a man who scared easily.

Annoyed that his thoughts should be dwelling so firmly on the man, Athos screwed his eyes shut and pulled the blanket firmly over his head. 

Outside the ring of firelight, in places where there was arguably no source of light to cast them, strange shadows flickered along the walls, elongated and dark and with the hint of something that might have been claws. 

\--


	9. Chapter 9

Porthos woke in the early dawn, sticking his head out of the blanket roll to find that Aramis and d'Artagnan were still asleep to either side of him. On the other side of the campfire, Athos was sitting on a block of stone by the entrance, staring out into the deserted ruins.

He'd kept the fire banked up, and a pot of coffee was steaming on its trivet. Porthos sat up, stretching. The slightest movement of Athos' head suggested he'd registered Porthos was awake, but he didn't acknowledge him. 

Porthos climbed to his feet, careful not to disturb the sleepers to either side, and went to sit opposite Athos. "Smells good," he said hopefully, keeping his voice low.

"Help yourself," said Athos neutrally, sparing him the barest glance before looking away again. 

Reasoning this was at least better than being told to get stuffed, Porthos poured himself a cup, then held out the pot to Athos, offering a refill. After a second's stiffly grudging fight with himself, Athos gave in and held out his own mug.

"Thanks."

"No problem." Porthos set the pot carefully back over the fire and savoured the aroma from his cup. 

For a while they sat in silence, which was if not exactly companionable then at least not entirely awkward. Finally Athos looked over at him.

"What happened?" he asked curiously. "Last night I mean. What did you see that spooked you so badly you ended up here?"

Porthos, feeling considerably sillier about his moment of panic in the bright light of day, just shrugged. "Jumping at shadows I guess," he admitted. "It was more a feeling than anything I could swear that I saw." He stared into his coffee for a moment. "Did you see anything?" he ventured. "While keeping watch, like?"

"A jackal down by the water at first light," Athos said. "And - oddly I kept thinking I saw a cat, out the corner of my eye. But it can't have been, can it? Not out here. But I don't suppose that's the sort of thing you mean anyway."

"How big was it?" Porthos started to ask, but they were interrupted by Aramis, freshly woken and in desperate need of coffee.

"Morning all. God I'm starting to miss sleeping in a proper bed," he groaned. 

"The thrill of adventure wearing off?" Athos asked wryly. 

"More just the thrill of sleeping under the stars," Aramis said, pulling a blanket round his shoulders. With the sun only just risen it was still chilly, and he wrapped his fingers gratefully around his tin mug of hot coffee. "Next time can we have a proper tent? Or, ideally, a hotel?"

"You've got soft," Athos teased. 

"Don't try and tell me you prefer sleeping on rocks," Aramis retorted. "Or do you like waking up stiff?"

Porthos promptly choked on a mouthful of coffee and Athos gave him a filthy look.

"So, what are our plans for the day?" Porthos asked brightly, as d'Artagnan came yawningly over to join them around the fire. 

" _Our_ plans are none of your business," Athos said coldly. "As for your plans, I couldn't care less."

Porthos set down his empty mug on the sand and stood up. "Yeah, well, thanks for the hospitality, eh," he said flatly, and walked off.

"You don't think joining forces might have been wise, in view of the opposition?" Aramis murmured.

"I'm not that desperate."

"Not even to keep your enemies closer, sort of thing? No?" Aramis rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm sure you know best. As always."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Athos snapped, but d'Artagnan held up his hands. 

"Can we at least try not to fall out before we've found the tomb?" he pleaded. To his relief the others both subsided again, and they continued breakfast in something of a sulky truce.

\--

Dawn in the other camp brought with it new shocks. Of the seven remaining labourers, it was discovered that three had died in the night - and horribly. When their fellows woke they found themselves lying beside three emaciated corpses, their leathery, wrinkled faces twisted in a matching rictus of terror.

"Who did this?" Grimaud demanded in a fury. 

"And how? Why didn't we hear anything?" Marcheaux wondered, puzzled. 

"Those bastards think they can creep up on us at night and even the odds a little? I'll show them." Grimaud drew his gun and stormed off through the trees. 

Marcheaux briefly considered following him, but in the end stayed where he was. He didn't especially care if Grimaud killed any of their competitors, but he suspected they weren't responsible for this. The appearance of the dead men was too similar to that of their compatriot the night before, and it now occurred to him that the latest victims were all those who had been involved in opening up the monument. Supressing a shudder, he went to fetch his shotgun. He wasn't sure it would be any protection against something that could do this, but it certainly made him feel better.

\--

Porthos was in an irritable mood, feeling that Athos' continued antipathy towards him was completely unjustified. He'd apologised hadn't he? Sort of. Totally unreasonable of the man to bear a grudge for this long. Porthos tramped off through the oasis, kicking at the sand and not really paying attention to where he was going, until he was brought up short by a figure marching in the other direction, and found a gun trained on him before he could make a move for his own.

"Grimaud." Porthos stared at him warily, hands cautiously raised. The man looked more unhinged than Porthos remembered, although they weren't exactly acquainted. Maybe this was always how he looked in the mornings. 

"What have you done to my men, you murdering swine?" Grimaud yelled. "You think you can waltz off with the prize here? I'll shoot you where you stand!"

A short distance away, the shouting was heard by Athos and the others. Exchanging alarmed looks at a confrontation so close to their own camp, they ventured out to see what was going on. As soon as Athos saw Porthos being held at gunpoint he drew out his own and the three of them walked steadily forwards, to Porthos' surprise coming to stand beside him in a show of solidarity.

"What's going on?" Athos asked quietly.

"He says I killed some of his men." Porthos looked indignant. "I bloody didn't!"

"You expect me to believe that?" Grimaud spat. "Who did then?"

"Porthos was with us all night," Athos said calmly. "One of us was on guard at all times, we can vouch for him."

"Then it was one of you!" Grimaud accused him, swinging the gun to cover each of them in turn.

"Don't be absurd," Athos snapped dismissively. "We're not murderers. Don't taint us by your own revolting standards. And be thankful we're a long way from the law out here, or be assured I'd be seeing you get what you deserve for what you did in Alexandria."

Grimaud gave him an unpleasant smile, but finally put away his gun. "So you're not a murderer, but you'd happily see me hang?" he asked ironically. 

"Due process of the law isn't the same as murder," Athos said, unruffled. "And I look forward to seeing it served in your case particularly."

"Good luck with that. Like you say, we're a long way from the courts out here." Grimaud turned and walked back the way he'd come, leaving behind him a thoughtful silence.

"Thanks for that," Porthos said finally, sounding mildly surprised. "Good to know you've got my back."

"Don't get any ideas," Athos retorted, walking off in the other direction. "We are not friends."

\--

"Aren't you being a little hard on him?" Aramis asked, finally catching up with Athos by the edge of the lake, as he splashed water over his face.

"He's a thief and a swinder," Athos retorted. 

"Quite a handsome one though," Aramis murmured, taking a seat next to him under a palm tree. "Don't you think?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Athos - "

"He robbed me, Aramis," Athos declared exasperatedly, wiping the water from his hair and beard and glaring at his friend. "He tricked me and he fed me a pack of lies, and then he robbed me. Maybe you could be more forgiving than me, in those circumstances, I don't know. But I can't."

Aramis was staring at him thoughtfully. "You saw him, didn't you?" he asked quietly. "That night. To talk to, I mean. He didn't just sneak in while you were asleep?"

Athos hung his head, ashamed and miserable. "More than to talk to," he admitted under his breath.

"Oh, Athos." Aramis let his hand come to rest on Athos' shoulder for a second. "I'm sorry. No wonder you're angry." 

"It serves me right," Athos said bitterly.

"What for?"

"You know what for. Or at least you guess. And I've been punished for my actions accordingly. So can we just drop the matter now, and get on with what we're here for?"

\--

"It wasn't them." Grimaud stalked back into camp and stared at the sight of the remaining four labourers seemingly hard at work some distance away, sorting and passing stones to each other. "What are they doing?"

"Burying their dead," said Marcheaux, hurriedly swallowing a mouthful of bread. "Or building cairns over them anyway. To stop the jackals getting them." In actual fact the men had claimed the stones were to stop the dead men getting up again, but he suspected Grimaud wouldn't appreciate this information. 

"What? We don't have time for this. There's a second gate, get them to open it." 

"Is that wise, after what happened last time?" Marcheaux started, then held his hands up in surrender when Grimaud glared at him. "Fine. You're the boss. Where's this other gate then?" Grimaud thrust a book at him and he took it in surprise. "What's this?"

"La Fère's notebook. I decided to have a look at their camp on my way back, while they were all away from it," Grimaud declared with some satisfaction. "There's a map. Oh, and I found this. Can you translate it?" He drew a stone tablet from his pocket, and handed it over.

Marcheaux whistled. "This is worth having. Yes, I think so, given time."

"You have as long as it takes those layabouts to make a hole in the second gate." 

\--

When Athos and Aramis returned to the camp, it was to find d'Artagnan hunting through their belongings with a look of consternation.

"Whatever are you looking for?" Athos asked with a note of irritation. "You've made a devil of a mess."

"This wasn't me," d'Artagnan protested, giving them a rather wild-eyed look. "When I got back everything was all over the place. Someone's been here, searching."

"Porthos?" Aramis winced, looking at Athos, but he shook his head. This careless disregard for other people's property had a familiar feel to it, and Athos remembered his trashed office in Alexandria.

"Grimaud, I suspect. Has he taken anything?"

"The tablet," d'Artagnan confirmed grimly. "I can't find it. I don't think anything else is missing though."

"Where's my notebook?" Athos asked. "It was on that ledge." A brief search suggested that, too, had gone the same way.

"Great. So now they know as much as we do," Aramis sighed.

"Much good may it do them," Athos glowered. "We've not got anywhere have we? I'm starting to think the whole thing's a wild goose-chase." 

Barely were the words out of his mouth before the oasis echoed to the crashing boom of an explosion, and they all clutched at each other in alarm.

A great cloud of dust was rising from the base of the cliff, and as they ran towards it they realised it was issuing from the mouth of the passageway to the inner chamber where the second gate lay.

"Has he blown it up?" Aramis asked in confusion.

"More likely looking for a way in," Athos guessed. A movement at the corner of his eye made him turn to find Porthos hesitating a few feet away, clearly drawn by the explosion as they had been.

"Are they in there?" d'Artagnan wondered. It was Porthos who ventured an answer, calling across to them.

"I reckon they must be. I've just come from a look at their camp, it's deserted. If you don't count the fresh graves," he shuddered.

"Found nothing worth stealing then?" Athos enquired sweetly, and Porthos gave him blank eyes.

"Not this time, no." 

"So are we - going to have a look, or - ?" d'Artagnan asked. "Given that nobody's come out again, they've either accidentally buried themselves, of they've found something worth their time."

As the dust cleared and the passage remained empty they cautiously walked inside, Athos in the lead with Porthos bringing up the rear some way behind, figuring the fact they hadn't actually told him to go away was as good as an invitation. 

Reaching the site of the gateway was to find a scene of devastation. The ornate carvings were cracked and split and a jagged hole gaped in the rock.

“My God.” Athos stared at the damage in shock. “This is just – vandalism.”

“Desecration, more like,” d’Artagnan murmured, running a hand over the ruined frescoes.

“Where did they go?” Aramis asked more practically. They all peered in to the dark opening and found that a narrow passage lead down through the rock.

“Huh.” Athos folded his arms, ignoring Aramis’ pointed look of ‘I told you so’. 

“They found it,” d’Artagnan ventured.

Athos shook his head. “I still don’t buy it. The tomb we’re looking for – Alexander was ruler of the known world. It’s going to be a damn sight more impressive than this, I’m sure of it. And besides, this looks like a natural fault,” he added, inspecting the rock inside the passage.

“We could just bring the rest down and seal them inside?” Porthos suggested from the back, nudging the pile of blasting equipment with his foot. “Problem solved.” 

“You told me you’d never killed anyone,” Athos murmured. “Are you so eager to prove yourself a liar on all counts?”

Porthos shot him a look, but said nothing. It was d’Artagnan who broke the awkward silence, peering down into the depths of the tunnel. 

“So are we going in after them? See what’s down there?”

“You’re not,” Athos said. “Nor’s Aramis. You’re not armed, and they are.”

“You’re not going in alone?” Aramis protested. 

“No, he’s not,” Porthos declared, patting his own gun illustratively. 

“Oh, and you being alone with him down there is so much safer?” d’Artagnan said incredulously to Athos, but Athos was looking at Porthos assessingly. 

“Very well.”

D’Artagnan groaned. “I still think we should come with you. There’s safety in numbers.”

“There’s safety in watching our retreat too,” Athos pointed out. “We don’t know for sure that all of them are down there. Would be awkward if someone decided to come along behind and seal us in down there,” he added with a sideways glance at Porthos, who just looked innocently back at him. 

“Ready then?” Athos took out his electric torch and shone it dubiously into the dark interior.

Porthos had been examining the pile of equipment left at the rear of the cave by Grimaud’s party, and came up with a pitch-covered torch, which he promptly lit with some satisfaction. “Ready,” he said, coming over to stand next to Athos. He looked from Athos’ torch to his, and grinned. “Mine’s bigger than yours.”

Athos sighed, and plunged into the darkness.

For some time there was no sound but the careful shuffle of their feet on the uneven sandstone floor, and the flickering of Porthos’ burning torch. Despite listening carefully they could hear nothing of the men who must be ahead of them, and hoped that they were far enough away that they wouldn’t suddenly bump into them.

“What do you think this is?” Porthos asked after a while. “Cause I think you’re right, this is no tomb entrance.”

“It must lead somewhere significant, for them to have sealed off the entrance like they did,” Athos mused. “A temple, maybe?”

The path was winding downwards into the earth, quite steeply in places, and Porthos’ torch was throwing weird shadows on the walls. Several times he stopped and stared at them, the back of his neck prickling with apprehension, but there was never anything to see when he looked directly at it. Athos didn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss, so Porthos kept quiet, not wanting to be ridiculed for jumping at shadows.

Progress was slow and careful, and they’d been walking for some time when they heard the first gunshot. Instinctively pressing back against the inner curve of the wall, they both drew their own guns, Athos pocketing his torch to keep a hand free, and relying on the light from the other.

They looked at each other. More shots had followed the first, and they could hear shouting now, but it had become apparent that they weren’t the target. The sounds were distorted by the rock, and it was impossible to tell how far ahead they were.

“Disagreement amongst thieves?” Porthos wondered. 

“It sounds more like they’re under attack,” Athos said slowly. “Do we go on, or turn back?” When Porthos didn’t answer he turned to look at him, and found Porthos was staring fixedly at the wall opposite.

“Athos,” he said in a tight voice. “Tell me that shadows don’t have eyes.”

\--

Having blown open the entrance façade, Grimaud, Marcheaux and their remaining four labourers had made their way with varying degrees of enthusiasm into the interior of the cliff. With several burning torches between them there was enough light that their passage was considerably faster than the two men following on behind, and they were oblivious to any pursuit.

Eventually the passage levelled out, and they found themselves in a chamber from which four more openings branched off.

“Now which way?” Grimaud stared irritably into the mouth of each tunnel, and finally settled on the widest one. “Can you hear water?” he asked curiously. 

“Wait!” Marcheaux looked back and realised with a shiver of horror they were about to walk off into a potential maze of passages without marking the way they’d come. He took a piece of chalk from his pocket and wrote ‘this way out’ on the wall. Grimaud looked over his shoulder at the careful _cette sortie_ and snorted. 

“Arrow too complicated for you?”

“Arrows can be changed too easily,” Marcheaux said defensively. “I know my own handwriting.”

Grimaud gave him a look. “And I thought I was paranoid,” he muttered. “Who’s going to interfere with us down here?”

“Athos and his friends for a start,” Marcheaux retorted, although that hadn’t actually been what was on his mind. Ever since they’d been down here he’d had the increasingly uncomfortable feeling that they were being watched.

Grimaud conceded the point and lead the way into the new tunnel. Before long it was winding downwards again, and the noise of running water got steadily louder.

“Sounds like a river,” Marcheaux said in surprise. 

“Must well up in the hills and flow under the rock to feed the oasis,” Grimaud guessed. “Would have made it a remarkable place to the ancient Egyptians. Miraculous, one might say.”

“You think we’re getting close to the tomb then?”

“We’re getting close to something. Can’t you feel it?” Grimaud’s eyes glittered in the torchlight. “There’s something down here. Something powerful.”

“It’s certainly bloody cold,” Marcheaux complained, being dressed for the desert heat. “Is the temperature dropping, or is it me?”

“Do you ever stop complaining?” Grimaud snapped. 

“Look, it’s cold, it’s creepy, and I’ve banged my head three times. And – what was that?”

“What was what? And what do you mean, _creepy_? Next time Georges, I swear am bringing your ten year old nephew instead, he’s not half as much of a coward as - ”

“Shhh!” Marcheaux interrupted frantically. “I heard something. Footsteps. I think?”

Grimaud drew his gun. “We’re being followed?”

Marcheaux stared into the darkness beyond the circle of torches. It was hard to tell over the background noise of rushing water, but there was definitely something out there. A dragging, shuffling sort of sound, getting closer.

“No,” he said slowly. “Whatever it is – it’s in front of us.”

Grimaud gestured to one of the men carrying the torches to walk ahead of him, and with gun drawn followed him down the passage. It opened out onto a narrow ledge, below which the gleam of black water slid past at their feet.

“Oh, Christ.” 

The exclamation at his back was a thin breath of horror and Grimaud turned in surprise. For all his ragging, he’d never known Marcheaux to sound scared in all the time he’d known him, and as he followed the line of his companion’s horrified gaze, he finally saw why.

Further along the ledge, a group of silent bodies stood watching them. And they were bodies too, he saw, the torchlight picking out the dead eyes and emaciated limbs, some of them dripping wet as if they’d recently hauled themselves out from under the water. 

First one, then another took a jerky step towards them, more and more stumbling into motion, paying no attention to the guns now levelled at them.

“You know you said the tomb builders were sealed up inside when it was finished?” Marcheaux whispered, voice level but distant with horror. “Well, I think we just found them.”

\--

Waiting on the surface, for a while Aramis and d’Artagnan had been vaguely conscious of a distant pattering noise, almost like rain. At about the time it occurred to both of them that out here in the desert this was extremely unlikely, the noise changed to a louder sliding slither of earth and stone, and d’Artagnan clutched Aramis’ arm.

“You know, guarding this entrance won’t do anyone much good if they decide to seal off the way in,” he said urgently. They looked up. The space they were standing in was technically open to the sky, but the rock walls were smooth sandstone with no handholds, and would be impossible to climb.

Torn between not wanting to abandon their post and checking that no one had interfered with their escape route, they finally agreed they would go as far as the end of the passage.

To their relief the way was still open, and there was no sign of anyone else in the vicinity. 

“They must have all gone underground after all,” Aramis mused. “But what caused that noise? It sounded like a landslide.”

D’Artagnan, who’d wandered some way off to investigate, beckoned him over. “What’s the opposite of a landslide?” he called. Aramis joined him, and realised what he meant. During their explorations they’d seen evidence of numerous landslips where the soft rock had crumbled and collapsed over the years. One of these had now tumbled out from where it had been filling a fissure in the cliff, to spill out over the sand.

“The blasting must have dislodged it,” Aramis guessed. 

“I wonder where this goes?” D’Artagnan had picked his way across the rubble field to peer into the newly unblocked split in the cliff face. “It looks like it runs back quite a way.”

“We’ll look later,” Aramis advised. “We should get back to the entrance. Athos might need us.” Gently reminded of his duty, d’Artagnan bit back an impatient protest and hastily made his way back. 

By the time they reached the entrance to the underground tunnel there was still no sign of Athos, or anyone else for that matter. Initial relief that their absence had gone unnoticed turned to concern as the minutes dragged by without anything happening.

Aramis sighed. “I don’t like this. What can they be doing down there? We should have gone with him.”

“We could follow them?” 

“We don’t have a torch. I don’t much fancy feeling my way down there in the dark, do you?”

D’Artagnan shuddered. “Maybe not. Besides, we still don’t have a gun either. He’d only be narky at us.” D’Artagnan leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, bored. “How come Athos has got a gun, anyway? Porthos I get, but Athos is an archaeologist. Hardly standard kit, is it?”

Aramis smiled faintly. “It’s his service revolver, from the war. He was supposed to hand it in when he was demobbed, but he claimed he’d lost it.”

D’Artagnan looked surprised, then laughed. “He’s got hidden depths.”

“It’s the hidden depths he’s in right now that worry me. What the hell’s going on down there?”

\-- 

Athos and Porthos stared at the shadow on the wall in front of them. There was no getting around the fact it was staring back.

“I’m not seeing things, am I?” Porthos whispered. 

“I wish you were.” Athos looked at the gun in his hand then holstered it with a sigh. You couldn’t shoot at shadows, and firing at the wall down here would only endanger them from the ricochets. “What the hell are they?”

“They?” Porthos echoed nervously, then realised Athos was right. There were more of them, shifting sinuously across and between each other, like the cats they resembled.

They turned in a slow circle, realising the shadowy creatures were all around them, wherever there was a rock face. 

“They can’t hurt us, right?” Athos ventured, sounding remarkably unsure of himself. “I mean, they’re only shadows.” 

“Something killed four of Grimaud’s men,” Porthos reminded him. “After they opened up that gate.”

“So – what, you’re saying it was these things?”

Porthos hesitated. “I kept – thinking I saw something. Last night. I didn’t want to say in case you thought I was mad, but it was these.”

Athos glanced at him. “That’s why you came to us?”

“Yeah.” Porthos swished the torch back and forth, trying to drive the shadows back. It seemed to work, but there were always more crowding in at the edges.

“Wait.” Athos reached out and Porthos jumped at the light hand on his back. “Not that way.”

Porthos looked up, and realised with a cold shock what Athos was getting at. They’d been retreating before the darkest and most oppressive shadows, and were slowly but surely being driven deeper into the tunnels.

“They don’t like the light,” Athos said, watching the way the shadow cats flinched back ahead of the increasingly wild swings of the burning torch. “I think it hurts them.”

“That’s what happened,” Porthos realised with a sudden flash of insight. “To the ones who died overnight. We – you – kept a watch all night, kept the fire going, but I bet Grimaud’s lot didn’t bother. What if they let their fire go out?”

“And then whatever these things are – they came in the dark.” Athos shivered. “We need to head back to the surface. Now. As long as we’ve got the torch it’ll keep them back.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before the torch started to gutter and smoke.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Porthos moaned. “Why’d you have to say that?”

“Oh, that’s right, blame me,” Athos retorted. “Never mind the fact you’ve been waving it about like a mad thing, making it burn down quicker.”

“Been keeping these things off us haven’t I?” Porthos demanded. “Fat lot of good you’ve been.”

They hurried up the tunnel, half-tripping over each other in their haste to escape before the dwindling torch went out entirely. It seemed further on the way up, jutting corners of rock knocking and bruising them at every step. All the while, the shadows kept pace with them, flowing over the walls and floor, reaching and circling, and waiting for the light to die.

“It’s no good,” Porthos panted, stopping for a second to catch his breath. “It’s going.” The flame licking over the head of the torch was barely a flicker now, the darkness pressing in on them from all sides. He looked at Athos. “I’m sorry.”

Before Athos could form a reply, or Porthos could even clarify what he was sorry _for_ , the flame died entirely and they were plunged into utter Stygian darkness. 

Porthos tensed, hoping for the sake of his own dignity that the yelp he suspected he’d just given had only been in the privacy of his own head. He braced himself, wondering if death would come as cold, or as claws, or perhaps as suffocation – and then suddenly the light was back, and Athos was staring at him in the beam of the electric torch he’d retrieved from his pocket and that Porthos had completely forgotten about.

Porthos sagged in relief, wondering if he’d imagined the distant hiss of displeasure as the shadows sprang back to the walls. 

Athos gave him a tight smile. “Small, but effective,” he said dryly. “Shall we?”

\--


	10. Chapter 10

Marcheaux and Grimaud faced the approaching corpses with horrified fascination. More by way of experiment than through any real hope of it having an effect, Grimaud shot one in the chest. It lurched back a pace but kept on coming, and he scowled. "Time to go."

They swung round, only to discover that more of the things had appeared behind them, cutting off their escape. One of their men fell to their grasping, tearing hands, his terrified screams choked off in a sickeningly wet gurgle. Another jumped into the water in an attempt to escape the same fate, only to be borne away by the fast flowing current before he could grab hold of the rocky bank. Their last view of him was a desperate hand breaking the surface before he went under a second time and vanished into the blackness of where the rock met the surface of the water.

Instinctively Grimaud emptied his pistol into the closest revenant, but to no avail. The deafening blast of Marcheaux's shotgun a few seconds later came as almost a physical blow in such a confined and echoing space, but the head of the creature disappeared in a cloud of bone and dust and to their relief it dropped unmoving to the floor. 

"The head it is," Marcheaux said grimly, taking out another one with his second shot before fumbling desperately for cartridges to reload. While he was occupied the others fought a desperate battle to keep them at bay, the labourers beating at the creatures with their burning torches while Grimaud had drawn his hunting knife and hacked furiously at whichever limbs came near him.

Two of them fell, engulfed by flames, but there were more to take their place and Grimaud suddenly felt a searing pain in his arm. One of the creatures, mouth snapping obscenely, following his movements with its dried up eyes, had stabbed him through the shoulder.

Most of the clawing corpses were unarmed, but this one bore a knife that gleamed like gold and cut like steel, clasped in a metal gauntlet that was seemingly of one piece with the blade.

Two more shotgun blasts in quick succession blew away the creatures to either side of him but Grimaud staggered, locked in a fatal embrace with the one that had stabbed him. 

He'd been knifed before, but this felt strange, different, hot and cold all at once. Grimaud looked down, and through the tear in his shirt he could see the flesh around the wound withering before his eyes. 

Grimaud snarled back in the face of the thing, seizing its scrawny shoulders in both hands and forcing it back through sheer force of anger. The blade pulled free of his flesh and fighting a wave of unnatural exhaustion he kicked the creature to the ground and hacked off the arm that was holding the weapon.

A second later the thing's head disappeared in an explosion of dust and Marcheaux appeared at his side, leaning over him in concern.

"Are you alright?" 

The words seemed to come from a great distance, and Grimaud looked down at his wound. There was curiously no blood, and he remembered the way the sickness had taken the first man the previous night. If that was to be his fate too then he would take as many of the damned things with him as possible. He reached down and picked up the fallen weapon, unsqueamishly knocking away the remnants of dead flesh and fitting his own hand inside the jointed gauntlet.

There'd always been a fury in him, simmering just below the surface at the best of times but now he unleashed it on the remaining creatures. They fell back before the blade, but he pursued them relentlessly the length and breadth of the chamber until the last one lay hacked into twitching pieces.

Panting, he returned to where Marcheaux and their two remaining men were standing watching him with something between awe and horror.

"Are you - feeling alright?" Marcheaux tried again. "You're hurt?"

Grimaud considered. The pain had gone, and he felt stronger than ever. When he looked down this time, he was unsurprised to see the wound had closed up completely.

"I'm fine. It must have missed."

"Right." Marcheaux looked dubious, but knew when to keep his mouth shut. "Well, that knife's certainly effective. Can I see?"

Grimaud made to hand it to him, then checked himself, looking puzzled. "No."

"I'll give it back, I just wanted to see how it was made."

This time when he looked up, Grimaud's mask of self-possession had slipped a little and there was an edge of tension in his voice. "No, you don't understand. I can't let go of it."

"What?" Marcheaux reached out, and together they tried to pull the blade and gauntlet out of Grimaud's grasp, but it wouldn't budge.

"You must be holding onto it!"

"I tell you I'm not!" Grimaud's brief moment of near panic was subsiding, and he looked assessingly at it. "I can barely feel my own hand any more," he mused. "It's like - it's become part of me."

"How do you feel?"

"Hungry."

Marcheaux looked surprised. "Well, let's get back up top and you can have something to eat. I don't think we're going to find anything else of interest down here. It's nothing but a red herring."

"You misunderstand. It's not me that's hungry," Grimaud said quietly. "It's - this." He held up the blade so it glittered in the torchlight. "Dead flesh apparently does not satisfy it."

"Am I going to regret asking what you mean?" 

The words were barely out of Marcheaux's mouth before Grimaud punched forward and drove the blade through the stomach of the closest labourer.

Mouth open in a silent scream, the man withered before their eyes, the life force draining out of him until a dead husk fell to the floor.

The remaining man spun round in a last-ditch attempt to avoid the same fate, only to discover Marcheaux covering him with the shotgun.

"Uh uh. Nobody's going anywhere," he said, determined that if Grimaud decided he wanted a second course it wasn't going to be him. "Feeling better?" he ventured, staying a cautious distance away.

Grimaud nodded thoughtfully. "For now."

"Oh you just had to say that, didn't you?" Marcheaux complained. Grimaud came closer and he lowered the shotgun, mainly to disguise how badly his hands were shaking.

"You're afraid of me, Georges," Grimaud chided, lifting the metal gauntlet to caress Marcheaux's cheek with the blade.

Marcheaux swallowed. "Not of you. Of that - thing."

"This _thing_ , may be just the edge we need." Grimaud smiled at his own joke. "I feel - invincible." He looked round at the crumbling bodies littering the cave and sneered. "But you're right, there's nothing for us here. This place was surely meant as a trap, nothing more. Our prize lies elsewhere." 

They made their way back through the tunnel to the chamber with the numerous entrances, only to find it filled with a darkness the torches could not penetrate. By now their single remaining labourer was carrying a torch in each hand, clearly terrified half out of his wits but accepting that they were probably his only hope of ever seeing the surface again.

Undaunted by the thick shadows, Grimaud raised the blade before him and the soft gleam from the metal seemed to cut through the solid darkness where the flames had not. Gradually they could make out the other openings, and smoky forms dissipated into the other tunnels.

Grimaud stroked his free hand along the blade approvingly. "It seems we may have been even luckier with this find than I thought," he mused. "Even the darkness bows before it."

"Can we just get out of here? You're starting to creep me out."

They hadn't gone far when something rattled underfoot. Marcheaux bent and retrieved a dead torch.

"This is one of ours," he said in surprise. 

"Someone must have followed us down here. Athos, perhaps?"

"Well where are they?" Marcheaux wondered. "This should have burnt for hours, ours are still going."

"Something must have happened to them." Grimaud smiled slightly, pleased by the thought of it.

"Well it can't have been fatal, there aren't any bodies. Unless they're lost in one of the other tunnels."

"Forget them. They are no longer of any consequence. With this blade at our disposal there is no one that can stand in our way now."

\--

After what felt like hours with nothing but the faint beam of the torch to guide them, the glimmer of light ahead had come as a great relief. Athos and Porthos covered the last few yards at a run and burst out into the daylight so suddenly that Aramis and d'Artagnan leapt up in alarm thinking they were being chased.

"What happened down there?" Aramis asked, once it became apparent there was no immediate danger. "You were ages. Did you find anything?"

"Trouble?" Athos suggested with a wry smile. "To be honest I'm not entirely sure you'd believe me if I told you.” In the broad light of day the creeping fears of the tunnel seemed silly, but Athos felt he should at least venture a precautionary warning. “Just - to be on the safe side, don't go underground without carrying a light, preferably an electric one."

Aramis and d'Artagnan exchanged baffled glances, but Athos declined to elaborate.

"Well we've got some news," d'Artagnan blurted impatiently, when it became apparent Athos wasn’t going to be drawn any further. 

"Oh? Well I'm glad someone's had a more productive morning," Athos said. "Go on."

D'Artagnan hesitated, glancing warily at Porthos, who glared back, stung.

"Oh, so I'm good enough to risk my neck with you, but not share your secrets?" he snapped at Athos, rather unfairly given that Athos hadn't actually said anything. "Well sod the lot of you."

"Porthos! Wait - " Athos started, but he'd already gone, marching off down the passage towards the oasis in a huff. Athos groaned. "Go on," he said to d'Artagnan, deciding he really didn't have the energy to deal with Porthos right now.

"It's easier if we show you," Aramis suggested, and they duly lead the way to newly cleared cleft in the rock.

"Worth exploring, do you think?" d'Artagnan asked hopefully. 

"Oh, I should say so," Athos murmured, picking his way in past the remaining rubble and staring not up at the towering cliffs on either side, but at the ground. "This is quite a well worn surface. It's had a lot of traffic at some point."

D'Artagnan was keen to start at once, but Athos insisted they return to the camp to fetch more torches, tools and provisions. Suitably equipped, they were on their way back through the oasis when Aramis gave a startled cry and pointed out into the lake.

What looked at first glance to be a floating bundle of cloth, turned out to be a robed body drifting face down in the water.

Quickly divesting himself of boots and trousers, Aramis waded out thigh-deep in the lake to tow the man in, but once laid out on the sand it was obvious there would be no reviving him.

"One of Grimaud's men," Athos mused. "I wonder what happened? He doesn't seem to have been shot. How the hell did he end up in the lake?" He'd told the others about hearing the distant gunshots, but nobody had been able to come up with a plausible explanation, other than expressing a joking hope that they all might have shot each other and therefore stopped being a potential problem.

They waited for Aramis to dry himself off and get dressed again, then dissuaded him from stopping to give the dead man a decent burial.

“Let Grimaud see to his own,” d’Artagnan objected, when Aramis suggested it. 

“Whoever he was, he deserves to be treated with respect,” Aramis protested gently. “Would you leave him for the jackals?”

“You want to Grimaud to beat us to the tomb do you?” d’Artagnan argued, and they both looked appealingly to Athos for a casting vote.

“We explore first,” Athos decided. “D’Artagnan’s right, we can’t afford to waste time. It’s not just Grimaud and Marcheaux after the same prize here remember.”

"Do you think we should maybe take Porthos along with us?" Aramis ventured.

D'Artagnan was indignant. "What? So he can rob us again?"

"Might pay to have him where we can keep an eye on him," Aramis said mildly, with a glance at Athos.

Athos considered. There'd been no sign of Porthos since they came out, and he had no desire to look like he was chasing after him. 

"Oh, let him sulk," he said. "Come on. Let's see what there is to see. It may be nothing more than another wild goose chase.”

They returned to the cliff and with Athos once more in the lead they started to work their way down the narrow passage in the rock.

The going was hard. Away from the opening the cliff walls were uncomfortably close together, and sometimes they had to squeeze sideways past jutting projections, or crawl through claustrophobically tight chimneys of rock.

"Just as well Porthos isn't with us," d'Artagnan grinned as they struggled through one particularly uncomfortable pinch point. "I'm not sure he'd get through here."

Mostly the rock was bare, but sometimes scrubby bushes had taken root in the barest scatter of blown soil and needed to be hacked back or climbed through, and in a couple of spots deep drifts of loose sand had to be awkwardly navigated.

It was searingly hot; with the sun almost directly overhead there was no escape from it, and everyone was quietly glad Athos had made them wait to fetch water. They'd been pushing on for some time, sweating unpleasantly in the airless hell of the passage when the narrow way finally came to an end. Stepping out with considerable relief into a relatively open space, they looked around them in stunned silence.

It was in some ways an echo of the second gate; a dead end encircled by cliffs open to the sky, cliffs that had been carved with immense skill to depict gods, monsters and guardians, framing an entrance portal that lay opposite the way through the cliff. The difference was the scale.

Statuary the height of four and five storey buildings towered over them, massive columns soared skywards, and the gateway itself looked like it had been built for a race of titans.

Aramis was the first to find his voice. “Well, I’m not the expert here, but I’m guessing we’ve found what we were looking for.”

“It’s incredible,” said Athos reverently. “The sheer size – they can’t have brought blocks that big through the cliff, it must all have been carved here, from the rock itself.” He looked up, and up, taking in the stern faces of stone. Men, birds, animals, and things in between looked gravely back at him, and he felt dizzyingly small.

“So how do we get in?” d’Artagnan asked practically. “We should have pinched some of Grimaud’s gunpowder.”

“Don’t you dare!” Athos said immediately. “This is the most significant find of the century, we are not blowing any of it up.” 

“Fine, but I don’t think knocking on the door’s really going to cut it.” D’Artagnan rapped his knuckles on the stone to match his words. “Hello? Anyone home? No, I think they’re all asleep.”

“I’m telling you now, if that had opened, I for one wouldn’t stop running till I reached Cairo,” Aramis grinned.

Ignoring them, Athos had been examining the gateway. “You know, I think these might be actual proper doors, rather than just carved representations like the others were,” he said. “If that’s so there’s a chance they’re on counter-weights. They might actually open.” He got down on his knees to see how they were fixed into the ground, then traced the line of the join with his hand. You couldn’t have slipped a sheet of paper between the two stone doors let alone a crowbar, but he was convinced they’d been constructed to be functional. “It’s just a question of finding the right pressure point,” he muttered, mostly to himself, whilst shoving at the unyielding stone.

Across the centre of the doors was fixed a long bar with an ornate circular plaque. It was carved with a triangular device and various symbols, with an inscription running around the outer rim.

“I _think_ – if we break the seal we should be able to open the doors,” Athos said. 

“Okay then.” D’Artagnan hefted a crow bar meaningfully, and Athos yelped.

“Not yet! If we’re going to break this thing, and I accept that it looks like we’re going to have to, then I want a record of it first.” He turned back to the doors, scrabbling fruitlessly in his bag then swearing.

“Damn it I forgot they’d taken my notebook. D’Artagnan, give me your sketchbook. I wish we’d brought photographic equipment now, but this’ll have to do.”

D’Artagnan obliged, and he and Aramis watched with a certain amount of restless fidgeting while Athos proceeded to make a careful drawing of the seal. 

"How the hell do you have the patience for that?" Aramis demanded after a while. Athos just smiled, but then looked so unexpectedly sad that Aramis was taken aback. "What did I say?"

Athos shook his head. "Just that Hassan said something similar to me once. Why is it everyone manages to make patience sound like an insult?" he added indignantly.

D’Artagnan had been passing the time by making his own rough copy of the inscription and trying to translate it, hoping that it would tell them something about the occupant of the tomb.

“Er.” He looked up. “Does this sound worryingly like a curse to anyone else?”

“You and your curses,” Aramis laughed. “Seriously, what do you think’s going to – ow!” He jumped, clapping a hand to his neck as if he’d been stung. “What the hell was - ” He broke off, as what turned out to have been a small stone was abruptly followed by a hail of others, and a descending cloud of sand and dust.

Stepping hurriedly back out of range, everyone looked up. To their astonishment, someone was climbing over the edge of the cliff, way above their heads.

"It's Porthos," d'Artagnan realised in surprise. “What the hell’s he doing? How did he get up there?”

"He'll kill himself," Athos muttered anxiously, but after a few tense moments it became apparent both that Porthos had proper rock climbing gear and that he knew what he was doing.

They watched, dumbfounded, as he propelled himself down the body of a huge statue and ended up standing next to them, unhooking himself and smiling round genially.

"Afternoon gents. What have we got here then?"

Athos found he was struggling not to smile at such a ridiculous entrance.

"I can’t seem to shake you off," he murmured.

"A more suspicious man might think you didn't want to," Porthos teased quietly, and for a loaded second they just stared at each other.

"How the hell did you find us?" Aramis interrupted. Porthos tore his gaze away from Athos and shrugged. 

"Watched where you went, then climbed up the cliff," he explained, tapping his gear in illustration. "Traced the crack along the surface. Top marks to you all for getting through there though," he added innocently. "It looked _really_ uncomfortable at times."

Aramis grimaced. "You know I'm starting to understand this overwhelming urge everyone has to punch you," he muttered. 

Porthos just grinned. "I do seem to have that effect on people."

“If everybody’s quite finished, can I draw people’s attention back to the small matter of what appears to be a curse?” d’Artagnan asked pointedly. Porthos looked alarmed.

“Curse? What curse?”

“D’Artagnan is choosing to interpret the inscription on the door seal as a curse,” Athos told him. “Personally, I feel this may be over dramatising things slightly.”

“What does it actually say?” Aramis demanded, feeling at something of a disadvantage being the only one of the party unable to understand the ancient symbols. He comforted himself with the thought that the other three would have been equally baffled if presented with an impenetrable medical textbook.

“Roughly – he who disturbs the sanctity of the tomb shall find himself in life-long bondage,” d’Artagnan told him, folding his arms. “Tell me that’s not a threat.”

Athos shook his head, half-amused. “It’s just a warning to ancient tomb robbers,” he said. “If they were caught they’d have ended up as slaves, that’s all.”

D’Artagnan handed him the crowbar. “In that case, you can do the honours,” he said firmly. 

Athos took it and turned to the doors. He set the end of the crowbar into the gap at the top of the seal – and hesitated. Licking his lips a little uncertainly, he glanced at d’Artagnan, then back at the doors. 

“Oh, let me do it.” Porthos reached out and Athos surrendered the crowbar without protest. 

“Not worried about spending your life in bondage?” he asked, only half joking.

Porthos stared blankly at the doors in front of him. “I already am,” he said under his breath.

Before Athos could ask what he meant, Porthos had put his weight behind the lever and the ancient seal cracked across the face, falling into pieces and crumbing to the ground. With the seal gone the restraining bar could be coaxed out of its sockets, and after a certain amount of grunting and swearing and the combined strength of all four, it was finally pried free and lowered to the ground out of the way. 

With all obstacles cleared, Porthos set his shoulder to the doors, and heaved. Slowly, with a grinding of dust and clunking of ancient stone rollers, they swung obediently inwards.

For a second everyone paused, as if waiting for something untoward to happen. When all remained quiet, they exchanged rather sheepish glances and began to smile.

“We’ve done it.” Athos sounded almost disbelieving. He gestured to Porthos to go ahead of them. “You opened it. The honour belongs to you.”

Porthos looked surprised, as if even now he’d been expecting to be told he couldn’t come with them. He nodded brief acknowledgement of the gesture and stepped inside, resisting the urge to duck even though the doorway stretched away above his head.

The others followed him in, staring around them in awestruck silence. The entrance hall was built on the same scale as the gateway, the ceiling so high it was barely discernible in the gloom. The walls were carved with enormous panels depicting hunting scenes, battles, and myths. The floor was paved with polished granite and inlaid at intervals with smaller quartz stones that caught the light.

“They must have brought this hundreds of miles,” Athos said, sounding impressed. “The only ancient granite quarry I’m aware of was at Aswan.” 

“Probable tomb of Alexander the Great and he’s interested in the floor,” Porthos muttered. Aramis laughed, then tried to look like he hadn’t.

Athos sighed. “Yes, alright, let’s see what else is in here then.”

The light from the entrance illuminated enough of the chamber to see there was only one other obvious way out. Set into the opposite wall, a passage lead off into pitch darkness. 

Athos and the others took out their torches, but Porthos pulled an ancient sconce from a bracket on the wall and after a certain amount of muttering, got it to light.

“That didn’t help you much last time,” Athos pointed out.

“I know. I just like a light I can also use to hit people with,” Porthos grinned, brandishing the sconce like a club. “Come on.” He stepped into the inner corridor, holding the burning torch up high.

The passage was on a smaller scale to the outer chamber, the walls and ceiling feeling uncomfortably close after the dimensions of the outer hall. It stretched on for some way, too far for them to see what lay at the end of it.

Porthos had taken barely two steps when a slab seemed to give slightly under his foot. There was a distant clonk somewhere in the wall to one side, and then Porthos found himself being jerked roughly backwards just as a series of metal spikes shot out of the wall in front of him.

“Jesus.” Porthos stared at the metal bar an inch from his nose that would have gone right through him if he’d still been standing there, and swallowed. Athos let go of the back of Porthos’ shirt, and let himself breathe again.

“That was close,” said Aramis, with a level of understatement that made everybody glare at him.

Suddenly the metal spikes withdrew back into the wall with a bang, making everyone jump. 

D’Artagnan sighed. “We should have thought there might be booby traps.”

“Looks like Athos did,” Aramis smiled. “Good thing he’s got good reactions.”

Porthos gave Athos a quiet nod of thanks. “I didn’t know you cared,” he murmured.

“You saved _my_ life. Consider us even,” Athos said flatly.

“I wasn’t keeping score,” Porthos protested, but Athos had turned away and was examining the floor again.

“Where did you step?” he asked. “Exactly.”

Porthos considered. “There. I think.” Some of the flagstones were smaller than others, tile-sized rather than slabs.

“Alright. Stick to the larger squares, we should be alright.” Athos made to step forward, but Porthos pulled him back.

“Let me go first,” he said quietly, then when Athos looked like he’d protest, clapped him on the shoulder. “If there’s treasure here, I am definitely finding it first.”

Athos gave him an odd look, but finally nodded. “If you feel anything move, drop flat,” he advised. “There was about a foot clearance under the lowest one. If they always come out at the same height, it might be your only chance.”

Porthos nodded grimly, then screwing up his courage stepped out into the passage again. While everyone watching held their breath, Porthos picked his way carefully down the corridor, stepping only on the wider slabs. 

About halfway down a band of the decorative tiles stretched the whole width of the passage, and rather than risk it he jumped awkwardly over the lot, flailing slightly to stay upright when the stone he’d landed on proved only big enough for one foot. 

The long torch he was carrying helped to balance him, and Porthos righted himself with a cheery wave to the row of concerned faces just visible in the gloom.

“Show off,” Athos muttered, breathing a silent sigh of relief.

Making it to the end of the passage without further incident, Porthos stepped into the chamber beyond. There was a feeling of space around him but the burning torch only lit a tiny area around his feet. Establishing that he was at least on safe ground, Porthos turned back to the passage entrance.

“It’s safe,” he called back. “Come on through.”

Athos came next, stepping carefully in Porthos’ footsteps as far as he could remember and joined him without mishap. Aramis followed, nearly slipping as he jumped the central band of tiles, but recovering himself just in time and joining them with an embarrassed smile.

D’Artagnan came last, navigating the central jump without issue, but managing to trip when he was almost at the end, feeling a tile click downwards under his stumbling boot.

He hurled himself forwards in a desperate leap, hearing the ancient springs protesting in the walls as the spikes shot outwards, close enough for him to swear he felt the wind of their passing. He ended up sprawled on his face at their feet, undignified and somewhat bruised, but safe.

Three pairs of hands helped him up, everyone too relieved he was unharmed to tease him about it.

“Well that was fun.” D’Artagnan brushed himself off. “Tell me we’re somewhere worth it?”

At first glance, the new chamber was disappointing. It seemed to be a dead end, and other than a series of cartouches on the opposite wall, was devoid of decoration.

“Is this it?” Aramis asked, sounding as let down as they all felt.

“Maybe someone beat us to it,” Athos sighed. “Thousands of years ago, for all we know.”

“No way.” D’Artagnan shook his head. “The seal on the door was unbroken, remember? And all that business with the spikes – they have to be guarding something, right?”

“Maybe there’s a hidden door,” Athos ventured, his interest rising again. He studied the cartouches carefully. “I think these are set into the wall, rather than being carved from it. If I had to guess, I’d say one probably opens another passageway.”

“So it’s just a matter of pushing them till we find the right one?” Porthos reached out at random and Athos caught his arm.

“Just bear in mind the consequences of choosing wrongly might be – interesting.”

Porthos looked down at where Athos’ fingers were still clamped firmly around his wrist, and raised an eyebrow. Athos hurriedly snatched his hand away. “I’m just saying.”

“So how do we know which to pick?” Aramis asked. “What do they mean?”

“The symbols represent the elements,” Athos said. “Earth, air, fire – Aramis, you’ve got it!”

“I have?”

“Earth! Remember what the tablet said? Something about entering through the earth. Maybe it didn’t just refer to the journey through the cliff.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Porthos put in dryly.

Athos looked at him. “Then I suggest everyone gets ready to duck, just in case.”

\--


	11. Chapter 11

Flexing his fingers nervously, Athos took a deep breath and laid his hand over the symbol for earth. He pressed, gently at first then more firmly and finally the block gave under his hand and clicked back into the wall. 

Everyone tensed, as somewhere above ancient machinery ground unwillingly into action after laying dormant for millennia. Then, with a toothaching scrape of stone against stone, part of the wall to their left lifted up into the ceiling, revealing a dark passage beyond.

“Open sesame,” Athos murmured. 

They filed in, and had taken barely more than a handful of steps before the door slab thumped closed again behind them. This caused considerable alarm and a certain amount of argument as to who had trodden on what that might have caused it to shut, until Aramis discovered a lever to the right of the doorway. 

Deciding that whatever the dire consequences of pulling it were, they should at least stop the other three from yelling at each other, he gave it a tug. Slightly to his surprise, the door obediently slid upwards again.

Everyone stopped shouting at each other and glared at him.

“Door knob,” he explained, and grinned. “I might not be an archaeologist, but I do know how doors generally work.”

There was a certain amount of bad tempered muttering at this, but comforted by the thought they could escape again when necessary they continued on down the passage, and barely jumped when after a minute the door thumped shut a second time.

The new passage was narrow but not uncomfortably so, and they could just about walk two abreast. The stonework was plain and unadorned, other than the occasional niche containing a watchful statuette. Metal brackets at high level held the remains of ancient torches, and Porthos coaxed a few of these into life as they passed, reasoning it would help them identify the way back.

So far though there seemed little risk of getting lost – the corridor had taken one sharply angled turn, and then another a little further on, but there had been no more openings, to either chambers or cross-passages.

“At this rate we’re going to end up back where we started,” Aramis said, as the corridor jinked yet again.

“I don’t think so. We’ve been walking downhill, haven’t you felt it?” Athos called back over his shoulder. 

“I’m glad you said that,” d’Artagnan muttered. “I thought it was just me.” 

“There’s something else,” Porthos said. “The distance between turns – it’s getting longer.” They stared at him, and he glared back. “What? It is, I swear. Count it if you don’t believe me.”

They started counting steps, and after three more angled turns were forced to concede he was right. 

After two more of these turns, Athos suddenly stopped dead, and d’Artagnan banging into the back of him. 

“Woah! What’s wrong?”

Athos was looking around him, studying the blockwork of the walls and the massive stone lintels of the ceiling. 

“We came in through the cliff, right?” he said, half to himself. “The gateway, the columns – they were all carved from the sandstone? But this isn’t. This isn’t like the previous gateway, we’re not walking though a passage through the natural rock. This is man-made.”

“What’s your point?” Aramis asked, glad that the others looked equally baffled. 

“This is going to sound a bit – out there,” Athos conceded reluctantly. “But if I didn’t know where we were, if I hadn’t seen how we got in – I’d swear we were in a pyramid.”

There was a dubious silence. “Less ‘out there’ and more ‘absolutely cracked’, I’d have said,” Porthos told him helpfully. “Or do you think that some massive great pyramid has just somehow gone unnoticed up to now?”

Athos shrugged. “I accept it’s unlikely. I’m just saying what it reminds me of. The angled passages, the quality of the construction. Don’t you think?”

“So what are you saying, they hollowed out the cliff enough to build a pyramid inside it?” d’Artagnan scoffed. “Or built it underground? And they say my theories are outlandish.”

Athos gave up and for a while they walked on in silence. Eventually, Porthos nudged him.

“To be fair, you’re right,” he said quietly. “Looking at it objectively – that is what this feels like. I just don’t see how it could be.”

“Neither do I,” Athos sighed. “Also – why aren’t there any side chambers? We’re just heading down one enormous spiral, I don’t know of any other tombs laid out like this. It doesn’t make any sense.” 

“What if - ” Porthos stopped, and Athos looked at him. 

“Go on. Nothing’s going to sound barmier than my theory.”

“I was just thinking. The way that doorway opened up. What if there are other doors, we’re just not seeing them because they’re shut?”

Athos stopped walking again and stared at him. “That’s going to make everything a hell of a lot more complicated if you’re right.”

Porthos laughed. “Like it was simple to begin with.” He took advantage of the halt to kindle another of the wall torches, and peered suspiciously into the new shadows it threw up.

“Do you think those - _things_ will bother us here?” Athos asked in a low voice. He’d noticed Porthos frequently staring off into the darker corners, and guessed what was on his mind.

“I’ve not seen any,” Porthos admitted. He gave Athos a grim smile. “That could just mean that whatever’s in here already is worse.”

“Oh, that’s comforting.” Athos made a face at him, and Porthos grinned. 

“What are you two whispering about?” Aramis called, and Athos looked back at them.

“Just speculating on what unnatural guardians this place might have,” he told him truthfully, and Aramis gave him a funny look. 

“I never know when you’re winding me up.”

Athos shook his head slowly. “I wish I was.”

\--

Elemental guardians or walking dead aside, unbeknownst to them they were no longer alone in the tomb. Some way above their heads, Grimaud and Marcheaux had finally tracked them through the passage in the cliff, and were standing in the entrance hall looking around with covetous satisfaction.

They were still accompanied by their sole remaining and by this point deeply unwilling labourer, whose name was Ahmed if either of them had bothered to ask. He’d considered cutting his losses and fleeing into the desert, but his employers had proved themselves far more of a threat than anything they’d so far encountered, and he was frankly too scared.

Grimaud and Marcheaux gave the splendour of the entrance way the most cursory examination before heading towards the inner doorway. Uninterested in anything they couldn’t carry off with them, the carvings and architecture were of little note.

Heedless to any danger, Marcheaux stepped into the passageway. He’d taken barely two steps before there was an ominous click underfoot and a grinding of distant machinery. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement and barely had time to flinch. 

When nothing happened he opened his eyes cautiously and found Grimaud at his side, the gauntlet with its wicked knife clenched into a fist just inches from his face, and pressed against the knuckles was the point of a gleaming metal spike.

Without moving, Marcheaux flicked his eyes down far enough to realise there was a whole row of them all aimed at his body, but they seemed to be fixed to the same mechanism, and Grimaud was apparently taking the entire force of it on one arm.

Marcheaux stared, instinct telling him to back away out of danger in case Grimaud’s hand slipped or his strength failed, but he was rooted to the spot. He could see the tendons standing out in Grimaud's neck, the only outward sign of the immense tension in his body as he blocked the entire combined weight behind the rack of spikes.

Slowly, inch by inch, Grimaud forced the weapon back, until he reached a point where the mechanism clicked into recoil, and the whole rack shot back into the wall.

Marcheaux breathed a sigh of relief. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or scared,” he murmured, looking down at the metal glove that hadn’t suffered so much as a dent.

Grimaud leaned in to him, and smirked. “The only thing allowed to impale you round here? Is me.”

Having figured out the theory behind the trigger mechanism and this time with Grimaud in the lead, gloved hand raised defensively to ward off further onslaughts, they made it to the other end without incident. 

Finding themselves in the antechamber with the cartouches, they stared at them in frustration.

“There has to be a way though,” Marcheaux reasoned. “They were ahead of us, they must have gone somewhere.”

“These are the only carvings in the room,” Grimaud said, having performed a perfunctory search. “It has to be one of these.”

“Which one?”

“How do I know? Press one, see what happens.”

Rather unwillingly, Marcheaux reached out and after a moment’s consideration pressed the third one at random.

A loud bang behind them made them turn to find a heavy slab of marble was now blocking the way out.

“Although possibly not that one,” Grimaud offered ironically. Marcheaux glared at him, and tried not to panic at the thought they were essentially now trapped in a stone box. He reached out and pressed another. 

\--

In a corridor several levels down, a slab of stone unexpectedly descended in front of the four men, making them come to a sudden confused halt. 

“What the hell?” Athos looked back the way they’d come in time to see a second slab cutting off their escape. Everyone ran frantically back along the corridor, but they were too late to prevent it from sealing them off, and this time there was no handy lever.

“What happened? What did you do?” d’Artagnan cried in alarm.

“Why are you looking at me?” Porthos bristled. “I didn’t do anything, what did you do?”

“Nobody did anything,” Aramis interrupted, trying to keep the peace. “Nobody was touching anything. Whatever caused this, it wasn’t us. At least, I don’t think it was.”

“Grimaud,” guessed Athos. “He must have followed us here. God knows what he’s done.”

“Look!” D’Artagnan pointed to a spot halfway between the two new dead ends. A dark opening that definitely hadn’t been there before now yawned in the wall.

“It’s not a trap then,” Athos mused. “It’s just changed the layout of the place.”

“And that’s not a trap how?” Aramis asked. “How do we find the way out now?”

“I thought we were concentrating on finding the way in?” Athos gave him an unexpected smile. “Look, Porthos was right, there were hidden chambers behind these walls. We’ve been going round and round and not getting anywhere. Who knows, maybe this has done us a favour.”

With that he shone his torch cautiously ahead into the new opening, and walked through into the blackness beyond.

This passage was narrower, steeper, and to their surprise this time lead upwards. 

“Some kind of service tunnel?” Porthos guessed, as they inched along in single file.

“Maybe built for airflow as much as anything,” d’Artagnan called from behind him, having come to terms with the fact that the others didn’t seem to object to Porthos’ presence on the team. He was still angry about the fact Porthos had robbed him at Abydos, but the discoveries they were making here promised to wipe out any lingering shadow over d’Artagnan’s career. And he had to admit Porthos did seem to know his stuff.

After several minutes’ uphill scramble, Athos called back that the passage was coming to an end, and stepped out with a feeling of some relief into a larger chamber. 

The torchlight revealed that they’d come out part-way along a wide gallery. Darkness to the left and right suggested it stretched for some considerable distance, on a more gradual slope than the one they’d just climbed.

“Which way?” asked Aramis. “Up or down?”

“I’m all turned around, which directions does this face?” Athos asked. 

D’Artagnan consulted his compass, and then stared. “Er – good question.” He held it out for them to see. The needle was swinging randomly, as if unable to get a fix.

“Well that’s helpful.” Porthos scratched his head, then pulled his own compass out of his pocket to double check. It behaved exactly the same way. “Huh.”

“What did you think, that I was just _holding_ mine wrong?” d’Artagnan asked acidly.

Porthos just grinned at him. “Sorry. Suspicious nature.”

“Usually comes with a guilty conscience, I find.”

“Gentlemen,” Athos interrupted quietly. “If you’ve quite finished. As it seems as broad as it’s long, I vote we go up, unless anyone has any objections?”

Nobody did, so they started making their way along the gallery, pausing every so often to examine the ornate carvings on the walls. Every so often there were marked differences in style, and it struck them that some were strangely out of context.

“This is strange,” Athos said thoughtfully. “Back there, where we first came in, the style was about what I’d have expected, Egyptian with Greek influences, not the full fusion that we see later, but a certain blending of style. But there – the figures look almost Persian in the way they’re depicted. And here – it changes again.”

“These look almost Indian,” Aramis said. “My family spent some time there, before the war,” he explained for the benefit of d’Artagnan and Porthos. “The style of carving – it’s a lot more sinuous than the Egyptian.”

“Is that where you developed a taste for mangoes?” d’Artagnan grinned. 

“Of course!” Athos slapped the wall. “This is a record. A timeline. Look.” He strode back the way they’d come, studying the carvings in more detail. “Here, this panel’s entirely Greek in style, Greek gods looking down from a Greek mountain.”

“Mount Athos?” Porthos suggested with a smirk and got a pained look in return.

“Mount Olympus, probably. Alexander was supposedly born in the shadow of it. Then, here, look, this is Siwa. And the style changes to a more Egyptian depiction. And so on, as you go along, the whole story of his campaign could be here.” Athos ran his hands through his hair, dishevelled and excited. “All we have are a couple of contemporary accounts, incomplete at best. This – okay, this isn’t going to be an unbiased account of his deeds by any means, it’s a monument designed to glorify them, but the things it could tell us – there’s a lifetime’s work here just translating it all. More than a lifetime.”

“And this is just the corridor,” Aramis said, smiling at his normally taciturn friend’s sudden enthusiasm.

“What?” Distracted, Athos looked over at him.

“Well, I mean if this is a timeline, then it’s leading up to the moment of his death, right?” Aramis suggested. “So - we’re going the right way?”

Athos took his meaning and stared into the darkness ahead, transfixed. “For the burial chamber,” he breathed. “Yes.”

A few feet further on, the gentle slope of the floor flattened out and they found the gallery ended in a huge doorway framed by carved pillars and delicate scrollwork. 

Almost hesitantly, they stepped inside. There was a feeling of space around them, something about the echoes, and the way the torchlight only reached a certain way into the gloom. 

Porthos looked around for one of the ubiquitous wall sconces and set his torch to it. After a moment’s coaxing it took light, and to his alarm a line of sizzling fire shot off along the wall.

He swallowed his yelp of guilty surprise as the fire reached a second torch and it burst into light, before the thin line of flame carried on along the concealed gulley to kindle a third and then a fourth.

“Did you know it would do that?” Athos asked, sounding impressed, as the ring of torches continued to self-ignite around the chamber.

“Yeah? It was obvious,” Porthos lied with a grin, and Athos shook his head, clearly not believing him for a second.

A final torch burst into flame on the far side of the doorway, and in the steady glow that now filled the room, the electric torches were no longer required. The flames gave off a certain amount of light, but this was reflected and increased by the fact that the room was filled with gold.

They stared. Of all the sights they’d seen so far, this was the most breathtaking. 

The walls were lined with sheets of beaten gold, embossed with further scenes of military might. Around the edge of the chamber was arrayed a series of large chests, themselves formed from precious metals, standing open to display sparkling jewels, intricate carvings, and heaps of gleaming coins. 

In the centre of the room a stone sarcophagus rested on a low plinth, presided over by an enormous statue. A gargantuan male figure clad in the rotting remains of what had clearly once been sumptuous robes, adorned with a golden head-dress, sceptre, and armlets, its face and stylised hair was instantly recognisable to anyone who’d seen the various depictions of Alexander.

“I think I’m going to need a word bigger than incredible,” Athos murmured.

Porthos nudged him. “How about priceless?”

Athos gave him a sideways look, struggling to keep the smile off his lips. “Trust you,” he chided, and Porthos grinned at him.

"Go on. Admit you're impressed."

"I'm staggered. I never imagined we'd find anything like this in my wildest dreams."

"I thought the sarcophagus was supposed to be made of gold?" Aramis put in, stepping down into the room and approaching the bier. 

"What, is there not enough here for you?" d'Artagnan laughed. "Anyway, it still might be. This is just the outer case. Come on, let's get it open."

Athos protested that they shouldn't disturb anything until they'd had a chance to record exactly how it had been found, but was vocally overruled three to one.

Resigning himself to the majority verdict, he leant his strength to the three shoulders already heaving against the massive stone lid and gradually it scraped open. Struggling under the weight they managed to lower it safely to the ground, then peered eagerly inside.

Within the outer stone case lay a magnificent golden casket that seemed to burn in the torchlight and for a while they just stared at it in a reverent silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

"Should we open this one too?" Aramis asked finally. 

"I don't want to damage more than we can help," Athos objected. 

"We should at least check he's in there," Porthos said. “Be awkward if there was nobody at home after all this.”

“Be more awkward if he disintegrates as soon as we open it,” Athos argued, but to his disgust he was outvoted again. He had to confess to a certain amount of curiosity though, and joined the others in looking for a seam to lever it open.

"According to accounts at the time, his body was preserved in honey," Athos said as they searched.

Porthos smirked. "So you're saying he came to a sticky end?"

This time Athos couldn't prevent the laugh that slipped out, and Porthos beamed, obscurely pleased to have managed it.

"Idiot." Athos' hand finally found a catch, and sprung it. D'Artagnan had found a second one further along, and together they lifted the lid, wondering what they would find. A skeleton? A mummy? 

Inside was a man. Larger than life size, it was perfectly proportioned, with jointed arms and legs and sculpted armour. It, too, was made completely from gold. 

"Here, we're not going to keep opening these things up until we find out he was only three feet tall are we?" Porthos joked. 

"The stories mention this too," Athos murmured, ignoring him and running a hand just above the surface of the golden casing, as if afraid to touch. "An anthropoid casket. I'd assumed it was just a legend."

"How does it open?" d'Artagnan asked, but despite further examination they couldn't find a catch or seam that invited ingress.

"Looks like we'll have to use a tin-opener," Porthos grinned. "Maybe we can persuade him to walk out of his own accord?" He reached down to try and lift the golden form out of its coffin, but Athos stopped him.

"What are you doing? We can't move anything from here, this whole tomb needs to be preserved and recorded, exactly as we found it."

Porthos gave him an incredulous look. "You're not serious? In the time it takes you to get back to Alex, round up your expedition team and get back here, Grimaud will have emptied this place out. And I'm betting you don't have enough supplies to leave anyone here on guard."

Athos stared at him, realising with a certain shock that Porthos was right. If they left, there was nothing stopping Grimaud from doing exactly as he said. For that matter, there was nothing to stop _Porthos_ from doing it, either. They might have been rubbing along well enough for the moment, but Athos reminded himself it wouldn't do to forget that Porthos was here for profit and nothing else.

"I don't think we could even get this out to the truck if we wanted," Aramis mused, staring into the casket. "That last corridor we came through was tiny. I think he's too wide."

"We never went all the way to the other end of the entrance gallery,” d'Artagnan pointed out. “It might join up with the first corridor we were in, the one that seemed to be just winding round the perimeter."

"Good point," Athos agreed. "We should see where it goes. We can’t get out the way we came in anyway, unless we can figure out how to make the walls move again."

"Should I stay here on guard?" Porthos offered, surreptitiously slipping a necklace into his pocket from a nearby chest. "In case Grimaud shows up?"

Athos gave him a hard stare. "No. I think we should all stick together. Safety in numbers, eh?"

"You still don't trust me, do you?" Porthos asked bitterly. 

For a moment Athos just looked at him. "Give me a reason to," he said softly. Before Porthos could answer he'd turned away and lead them all back out of the opulent chamber.

The entrance passage sloped downhill, turning back on itself a short distance past the side tunnel they'd emerged from, before emerging into an enormous pillared hall.

Porthos set about kindling the nearest wall torches, but even so the light barely penetrated to the middle of the chamber.

"Where are we?" d'Artagnan asked, in hushed tones.

"At a guess, I'd say the original entrance," Athos hazarded. "The way we came in was perhaps a secondary route, maybe even a secret one. I was wondering how they'd managed to get some of the things we've seen through the cliff, but perhaps they didn't have to. It would make sense, leading straight up to the main burial chamber."

"Thank you for the information. That'll save us a search." 

They all turned sharply at the unexpected voice from the shadows, to find Grimaud, Marcheaux and a third man stepping out from another passage.

"You have no right to be here," Athos told them angrily. "You're trespassing."

"So are you," Marcheaux pointed out. "You've got no more authority here than we have. And if you don't make it back – well, no one will be any the wiser will they?"

"Are you threatening me?" Athos asked coldly. 

"No. I'm dealing with an unwanted pest problem," Marcheaux said with a hard smile, and he raised Grimaud's pistol.

"Athos, look out!" D'Artagnan flung himself sideways as Marcheaux fired, knocking Athos to the ground and falling back with a cry of agony.

Before Marcheaux could take aim a second time Porthos had returned fire, and Marcheaux hastily ducked back behind a pillar.

In the few seconds of respite this gained them Aramis helped d'Artagnan to his feet, and Athos got a confused glimpse of bloodstained hands before Porthos dragged him roughly into shelter. 

"Turn the light off," Porthos hissed, dropping his own smoking torch on the ground and hauling Athos deeper into the gloomy forest of pillars. "They can't hit what they can't see."

Another light some distance away abruptly cut off, Aramis apparently having come to the same conclusion. Athos wondered in alarm if d'Artagnan was badly hurt. It had all happened so quickly. 

Grimaud and Marcheaux had abandoned their torches as well and were now stalking the others through the shadows, Marcheaux wielding the pistol, Grimaud having forsaken conventional weapons in favour of the deadly blade that now sprang from his hand.

Besides the torches Porthos had lit where they’d emerged from the passage, the only other illumination in the hall was a faint glow emanating from the torch held by Ahmed. In an attempt to get away from the exchange of fire he’d fled deeper into the hall and been largely ignored by everyone else as posing no threat or being of immediate use.

A massive block wall loomed up in front of him and he followed it along, whimpering faint curses aimed variously at his employers, at the people currently shooting at his employers, at his own idiocy for accepting this job in the first place, and at his parents for having had him at all. 

The wall came to an end and his searching fingers identified a pair of massive single blocks, stretching upwards out of sight. He stepped back a little, trying to get a better impression of scale. They were doors, he realised with mounting excitement. Doors meant a way out. A way out meant safety. 

He wedged his torch into a convenient bracket and set about trying to find a way of opening them. Making their way down through the pyramid, he'd watched Grimaud and Marcheaux figure out ways of navigating the various obstacles they’d come across and reasoned that if the huge gates, clearly too heavy to be opened by brute force were designed to be opened at all, there would be a corresponding mechanism to help.

A likely looking lever protruded from the wall a short distance away, guarded by the head of a disapproving looking sphinx. 

"No!" The yell came from behind him but he dismissed it. By now he didn’t care what the rest did to each other, his only thought was to escape.

He reached up and took a solid hold of the lever, heaving downwards with all his might.

For a second nothing happened, and then his fragile hope of escape was snuffed out forever by a solid wall of choking death.

From the back of the pillared hall it wasn’t immediately clear what had happened. A wave of darkness had engulfed the distant glow that had been Ahmed’s torch, and for a moment Porthos thought it was more of the elementals that had stalked them in the earlier tunnel. Athos’ initial confused impression had been one of water, although how it could be a wave that tall in the middle of the desert didn’t make sense.

With the thicker darkness came a rushing, roaring throb of sound and several of the pillars nearer the entrance seemed to buckle, although it was hard to tell in the low light.

It was Aramis who first realised the truth, forcing the word out of a throat that felt frozen in horror.

“Sand!”

Flowing as fast as water, in the seconds since Ahmed had breached the entrance it had flooded into the chamber, a wall of soft but deadly desert sand that forced the doors further open.

“We have to get out of here!” Porthos, turning to run, realised Athos wasn’t following, that he’d even taken a step further in the direction of Aramis and the wounded d’Artagnan. 

Porthos grabbed him, dragging Athos bodily back into the mouth of the nearest passage.

“No! We have to help them!” Athos was struggling to get free, but Porthos held him in a grip like iron, forcing him away from the rapidly filling hall. The sand was already deeper than head height in some places, and everyone else had been a lot further out.

Porthos stumbled, then realised in relief they’d reached a flight of steps. At the top, a wooden door stood invitingly open. He dragged Athos up the few steps and slammed the door behind them. The hiss of encroaching sand was already at their feet, slippery underfoot. It spilled under the door, but the latch and the wood held, and beyond it everything fell silent.

Behind the door it was pitch dark. Outside, Porthos had dropped his gun to grab hold of Athos with both hands, and he was still holding on to him, arms wrapped obstinately around his waist and chest, refusing to let him go.

For a few moments longer Athos still struggled to get free, then the fight seemed to go out of him and he sagged in surrender. Porthos kept hold, turning Athos round to face him and wrapping his arms around him again.

“No.” It was almost a whimper against his neck, but Porthos sensed it was disbelief at losing the others, rather than a protest at being held like this. Athos had certainly stopped trying to pull away.

“There was nothing you could have done,” he said heavily. “There was nothing any of us could have done. They were too far away.”

“You should have left me,” Athos said bleakly. 

“No. Don’t say that.” 

The utter darkness somehow made it easier to just keep holding him, and also for Athos to allow it.

“I wish we’d never come here,” Athos said bitterly under his breath. “I wish I’d never even heard of this place.”

After a while Athos pulled out of Porthos’ arms, and this time he let him go. He heard a faint rattle in the darkness, then blinked in sudden harsh electric light, realising with some relief that Athos still had his torch.

They stared at each other in the stark light. Athos looked taut and pale, but his face was set and emotionless.

“They might have made it,” Porthos ventured. “There were other tunnels. They might have been close enough to another one.”

“Or they might be dead,” said Athos flatly. “D’Artagnan was injured. They wouldn’t have been able to move quickly.” He hesitated. “What happened to Grimaud and Marcheaux? I wasn’t looking their way.” 

Porthos shrugged. “I thought I saw them go down, but I couldn’t swear to it. Personally I hope they’re dead, ‘cause I dropped my gun.” He grimaced. “I liked that gun.”

“Sorry,” Athos said awkwardly, guessing it had been because of him, and his unthinking, suicidally inclined attempt to reach the others.

“I was out of bullets anyway,” Porthos said philosophically, watching Athos checking his own gun, and thinking that at least they weren’t unarmed.

“So, what’s the plan?” Porthos was by nature an opportunist, and right now Athos was his only source of light. Wherever Athos went, he’d have no choice but to follow.

Athos snapped his gun closed and reholstered it. “The plan? Next time I don’t wait for them to shoot first,” he said grimly.

They examined the door. It was sturdy and banded with iron, and apart from a thin spill of sand that was gritty under their boots, had kept out the rising desert. Athos reached out his hand to the catch, and Porthos tensed in alarm.

“You open that, we’re probably both dead.”

“I might still be able to help them,” Athos said quietly. “I have to try. Move back, if you want.”

Porthos let out a shuddering breath of disapproval, but held his ground. Athos reached out again, and lifted the latch. They both flinched, but after a moment’s fruitless pulling and pushing, they realised what the problem was. The door opened outwards, and on the other side countless tonnes of sand were piled up against it.

Athos sighed. Porthos reached out to grip his shoulder comfortingly, but Athos moved away from his touch, visibly pushing his feelings away to deal with later.

“Plan B it is then.” He shone his torch up the passage behind them. “I guess we see where this goes.”

\--

In the hall, for a while nothing moved. The torches further up the passage to the burial chamber flickered on a silent expanse of sand, that had finally found its own level.

A disturbance on the surface became apparent; a second later a clawing hand burst out of the sand followed by a gasping, spluttering head, as a figure crawled determinedly out of a premature grave, dragging another man behind him.

Grimaud staggered to his feet and scrubbed the sand vigorously out of his hair, swearing.

Marcheaux remained sprawled on the sand, clutching a stone step for dear life and coughing violently. When he’d coaxed a decent amount of air back into his lungs and spat out what felt like half a desert he looked up at Grimaud with something like awestruck fear.

“That shouldn’t have been possible,” he said in a low voice. “The weight of that sand – what you just did - ” he tailed off. “What are you becoming?”

Grimaud didn’t answer immediately, staring at the blade that seemed to have become an intrinsic part of him, and wondering if he was imagining the fact that the join seemed to be further up his arm than before.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Just be grateful that I am.” He took a step and stumbled slightly, steadying himself on a pillar.

“Are you hurt?” Marcheaux finally got to his feet, concerned but cautious.

“Just weak,” Grimaud admitted. “I’ll need to feed soon.”

Marcheaux took a horrified step backwards. “Christ. You weren’t saving me at all, were you – you were just saving me for later!”

Grimaud shook his head mockingly. “Always so paranoid, Georges. I’m guessing the odds are in favour of at least one of the others having survived, they were further back. We’ll find them. For the moment you are more useful to me alive.” Grimaud gave him a look of wolfish amusement. “A state of affairs I suggest you seek to maintain.”

\--

Athos and Porthos had been wandering stone corridors for what felt like hours but had probably only been about twenty minutes. They seemed to be in a network of service passages, narrow and undecorated. They’d kept hoping they’d cross their own earlier route, guessing that the torches Porthos had lit along the way would still be burning, but so far had remained in the dark, guided only by the beam of Athos’ torch. Neither of them liked to voice the fact that it seemed to be getting a little fainter, or what would happen if it failed altogether.

“How big is this place?” Porthos groaned. “It goes on for miles.”

“We’re probably doubling back a lot,” Athos sighed. There had been countless angled turns, and when faced with a choice they’d taken passages at random, occasionally having to retrace their steps if they came up against a door they couldn’t open, or occasionally a blank wall. “It may not all be confined within the space of the pyramid, we might be underground by now.” There had been steps and slopes both up and down, and they were both completely lost. 

“Wait. Did you hear that?” Porthos hissed, interrupting him. They both listened intently, and heard a faint sound that might have been a distant footstep, or might have been simply an echo.

“Look!” Porthos grabbed Athos’ sleeve and pointed. At the end of the passage they were standing in, a faint light was visible from the other direction, bobbing slightly, as if carried by someone walking towards them.

Athos clicked off his torch, and they edged closer to the corner in darkness. It became apparent that whoever was coming the other way had done the same at almost the same time, and they felt their way along the wall in pitch darkness, ears straining to make out the sounds of the unknown people edging towards them.

Athos felt his searching fingers slip into empty air and knew they’d come to the corner. He took a deep breath, left thumb against the switch of his torch, gun in his right hand. If it was Grimaud and Marcheaux he would kill them. He knew it like a cold certainty in his gut. 

Taking a deep and silent breath, Athos swung round the corner, bringing up his torch and gun and blinking in the sudden blinding light of another torch being shone directly into his eyes.

“Athos!”

Fighting the urge to pull the trigger from sheer instinct, Athos found the beam of the torch had swung to the side, and finally took in who was holding it. 

“Aramis? Oh God. Aramis.” They fell into each other’s arms, embracing in desperate and disbelieving relief. Over Aramis’ shoulder he could see d’Artagnan, bloodstained and leaning against the wall, but smiling at them in relief.

Porthos watched the reunion with a vague spark of jealousy, wondering for the first time if Athos and Aramis were more than just friends. In his experience, Englishmen weren’t much given to hugging each other in public.

“I thought you were dead,” Athos confessed weakly. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Tougher than we look,” d’Artagnan called, but he’d slipped down the wall to sit on the stone floor, and looked in a bad way. “What the hell happened back there? All that sand?”

“I’ve been wondering about that.” Athos looked round at them all. “At a guess – this pyramid, tomb, whatever this is – was built up against the cliff. That was how we came in, right? Over the centuries the desert must have swallowed it up. The landscape out here changes by the day, it’s not impossible. Windblown sand, stopped by the cliff, it just piled up and up. It would explain why nobody’s ever found this place before. From the surface there’s probably no trace. It’s all under the sand.”

“So we did pretty good to find it, huh?” D’Artagnan gave him a weak grin, and now Athos could see that his eyes were glassy and he was sweating heavily. 

Athos crouched down beside him. “That bullet was meant for me,” he said softly. “Thank you seems rather inadequate.”

“My mother always said I was too reckless for my own good.” D’Artagnan swallowed, trying not to wince. 

Athos straightened up again and stepped back to the others. “Is he alright?” he asked in a low voice. Aramis shook his head tightly. 

“We were just lucky it was the pistol and not the shotgun or he’d probably have lost his arm. I’ve patched him up as best I can, but we need to get him to a hospital.”

“Agreed.” 

Athos turned back toward d’Artagnan, but Porthos grasped his shoulder. “You’re not just going to abandon all this for Grimaud to pick over are you?” 

“Right now, I’m more concerned about my friend not dying,” Athos said coldly. “You know what? Screw the gold. Grimaud can have it. Hell, _you_ can have it. It’s yours.”

“No.” To their surprise it was d’Artagnan who’d spoken, and they turned to find he’d levered himself up to a standing position. “Athos, no, you can’t let them win. Not after all this. Aramis can get me back. You should stay.”

Athos wavered, but Aramis shook his head.

“If we take the truck you’ll be stranded out here.”

“Take the motorcycle,” Porthos offered, to their surprise. “If d’Artagnan’s still strong enough to hang on, it’ll be a damn sight quicker.” He gave Aramis a mildly challenging look. “I’m assuming you can ride a bike?”

Aramis returned his look with cool amusement. “I can ride anything.”

\--


	12. Chapter 12

An agreement reached, the fact still remained they had no idea how to get out of the place. This aside, their reunion meant that their passage through the maze of corridors was now made in slightly better spirits, and after a while they finally became aware of a flickering glow up ahead. Approaching cautiously in case it signified the presence of the others, they were relieved to come out into a relatively wide and empty corridor.

“This looks like the one we came in down,” Aramis said. “If we follow it back up, we should find our way out alright.”

“The way was blocked,” Porthos reminded him. “How will you get past?”

Aramis shrugged. “Grimaud and Marcheaux found their way down. Either they figured out a way to open it up again or there’s a way round. We’ll find it. Isn’t that right?” 

D’Artagnan nodded vague agreement. Most of his weight was currently being supported by Porthos, and the pain in his shoulder was spreading out to the rest of his body in waves of agony, a fact he’d chosen not to share with the others on the grounds they had enough to worry about. He already felt guilty enough about leaving, and frustrated too, although he was forced to concede he’d be no use to them in his current state.

“If you go the other way, you should find your way back to the cross-passage,” Aramis said to Athos. “Save you having to navigate the hall at the bottom, if it’s even still passable.”

“Yes.” Athos clasped his friend’s hand, and gave d’Artagnan a worried look. “Good luck,” he said quietly. 

Aramis nodded. “You too.” He took d’Artagnan from Porthos, supporting him as best he could, and they started back up the gentle slope, soon leaving the others behind.

“Am I stupid?” Athos murmured, once Aramis and d’Artagnan were out of sight.

Porthos raised his eyebrows. “I’m not entirely sure that’s a question I’m qualified to answer,” he smiled.

Athos looked like he wanted to laugh, but shook his head. “Staying here alone with you. You want that sarcophagus as much as Grimaud does.”

Porthos hesitated. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Alright. I do.” He gave Athos a meaningful look. “The difference being, I won’t shoot you for it.”

“So where does that leave us?” Athos asked helplessly. “I spend my whole time wondering exactly when you’re going to betray me?”

Porthos gave an uncomfortable sigh. “I’ll be straight with you. Yeah, I want that thing. But if I can’t have it, I’d rather see you get it than Grimaud. So let’s just – make sure he’s not a threat any more, eh? And get out of here in one piece. We can argue over who gets it later. Maybe we can – I dunno. Toss for it?” he offered with a suggestive grin.

Athos rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let’s get back to the burial chamber.”

Porthos nudged him with his elbow. “Wouldn’t kill you to let yourself laugh occasionally you know,” he muttered. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“You’re assuming I find you funny,” Athos retorted. 

“I know you find me funny,” Porthos complained, following him down the passage. “You just won’t admit it.”

\--

Having emerged from the sand at the foot of the main gallery up to the burial chamber, it hadn’t taken Grimaud and Marcheaux long to find their way to it.

“Now that, is how I’d like to be buried,” Marcheaux said, eyes wide as he took in the contents of the room. “Rolling in gold.”

“Typical selfishness of the nobility,” Grimaud muttered, stalking over to the sarcophagus and peering inside, nodding to himself in satisfaction.

“Eh?” Marcheaux followed him over, and gave an impressed nod of respect to the golden figure and its golden casket.

“And they say you can’t take it with you when you go.” Grimaud indicated the room with a look bordering on disgust. “How many people could they have fed with this lot?”

“Going to leave all your money to an orphanage then are you?” Marcheaux grinned. He’d abandoned the sarcophagus and turned out the contents of his bag, including Athos’ notebook and the original tablet, the better to fit in more coins and jewellery that he was currently scooping in handfuls out a nearby chest.

“What are you doing? Leave that, come here.”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Marcheaux objected. “I thought this was what we came for?”

“ _This_ , is what we came for.” Grimaud stared down at the golden figure covetously. 

“Yeah, well, in case you’ve forgotten, the men we hired for the heavy lifting? Are all dead. Inconveniently ahead of schedule,” Marcheaux pointed out. “And I for one am not doing my back in trying to carry that thing out of here. Once we’ve made sure Athos and his friends can’t blab, we can come back for the rest at our leisure, right?” 

“Wrong.” 

Marcheaux froze, for the very good reason that there was suddenly an evil looking blade at his throat. 

“I _said_ , come here.” 

Trying not to flinch, or indeed breathe or swallow or do anything else that might result in his throat getting cut, Marcheaux obediently edged back over to the sarcophagus.

“That thing’s definitely making you tetchier,” he grumbled, once Grimaud had lowered the blade again.

“I’m hungry,” Grimaud reminded him, and Marcheaux shifted uncomfortably. 

“Point taken. What do you want me to do then?” 

Grimaud raised his arm and Marcheaux took a step backwards before he could stop himself, but rather than lunge at him, Grimaud fitted the point of the blade into a discreet slot in the side of the casket, and twisted.

There was a click followed by a slight movement in the casket that made Marcheaux jump until he realised what had happened. A hidden seam in the golden figure had sprung apart.

Morbidly curious, he reached down and lifted it wide open. To his surprise, it was empty.

“Get in.” 

“What?” Marcheaux looked up in shock, but Grimaud clearly wasn’t joking.

“I said, get in.”

“In there? No way. You’re mad.” Marcheaux started backing away, but Grimaud just looked impatient. 

“It’s not a coffin.” He looked down into the casket with a distant smile. “It’s armour.”

Marcheaux edged closer again. “Armour?” He took a more assessing look at it, but the thought of being shut inside it made him shudder. “Why don’t you get in, if you’re so keen?”

“I won’t fit.” Grimaud withdrew the blade from its slot and raised it in illustration. 

Marcheaux looked from the jointed hand of the golden figure to the gauntlet Grimaud was wearing and wondered if the two had originally been meant for each other. Possibly the thing had never been meant to be worn by a human hand. Conversely, if just a glove was having such an effect on Grimaud, what might an entire body’s worth of armour do to a man?

“I am not putting that thing on,” he repeated. 

“Then you are no longer of any use to me.” 

The threat was blatant, yet calmly made. Marcheaux weighed up his chances of survival against the unknown horrors of the suit, and sighed in defeat. 

“Would now be a good time to ask for a raise?”

Grimaud offered a thin smile. “You help bring this home, I’m sure Feron will be suitably grateful.”

As the casing snapped closed, Marcheaux's instinctive reaction was to try and struggle free, but he’d seen what that blade of Grimaud's did to people. Consequently, he swallowed down his rising panic and lay obediently still as his body was encased in gold.

To his relief he found he could still see out: there were eye holes and also a metal lattice over the mouth meaning he could breathe without issue. The immediate fear of suffocation waning, Marcheaux let himself contemplate this new form.

His initial assumption had been that it would be way too heavy for him to move, particularly from a supine position, but to his surprise when he tried to sit up the armour moved with him as if almost weightless.

“How does it feel?” Grimaud was watching him with a hungry look that might even have been jealousy.

“Strange.” Marcheaux’s voice sounded loud in his own ears, and he reached for the edges of the sarcophagus, hauling himself into a standing position and stepping out onto the floor. He’d expected to feel unwieldy, unbalanced, but the suit was like a gleaming second skin. Moving was effortless, and he walked experimentally around the room, trying it out.

“Behold, the risen god.” Grimaud’s laughter was scornful. “With weapons like these, no wonder Alexander conquered so much. And he had no tanks, no aeroplanes. Think what we could accomplish. Invulnerable. Invincible.”

“Hasn’t the world had enough of war?” Marcheaux let his gaze roam over the treasures filling the room. He would take private wealth over public glory any day.

“What do you know of war?” Grimaud spat accusingly. “Phillipe saw to it you spent the whole thing in a safe little commission miles from any danger, oh don’t bother denying it, I know he did.”

Marcheaux had stopped listening, partly because he’d heard all Grimaud's irritable rants before, and partly because he was trying to identify where the whispering was coming from.

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Grimaud raised his blade, immediately on guard.

“Voices.” Marcheaux was turning small circles on the spot, trying to identify where it was coming from.

“Athos?”

“I don’t know.” They both went to the entrance and peered out down the deserted long gallery.

“I don’t hear anything?” Grimaud said impatiently.

“It’s all around.” Marcheaux looked up in a vain attempt to locate the source, as if there might have been hidden loudspeakers in a centuries old tomb. “Do you think it could be a trick of the acoustics? We could be hearing them through air ducts or something?”

“It’s possible, but I still don’t hear anything.” Grimaud frowned at him. “You’re imagining things. Come on, we need to establish if they’re still here, and if so, deal with them.”

Marcheaux didn’t move. “I’m not imagining it. I can hear - ” he broke off, alarmed. “It’s in my head.”

“Told you.”

“No! I mean I can hear something speaking to me.”

Initially inclined to be dismissive, Grimaud hesitated. It wasn’t unfeasible that the armoured suit had attributes they were unaware of – he was finding he could sense things about the gauntlet on a somehow instinctive level – but the power of actual speech seemed a stretch.

“What’s it saying?”

The tall golden figure that was Marcheaux shook its head, an oddly bewildered gesture on such an impressive colossus.

“It’s – not just one. It’s like there’s a crowd in here, all whispering at once. I don’t - don’t understand what they’re saying. I mean – I don’t even recognise the language.”

Grimaud watched the golden figure slowly raise its hands to its head. “Stop fighting it,” he suggested, a certain curiosity tugging at him now, to see what happened. “Let them in.”

Marcheaux gave him a dubious glare that was completely hidden by the mask, and took a deep breath, trying to relax and feel at one with the suit. It seemed to sink into his skin; the mask pressing against his face no longer felt cold and alien, the jointed fingers no longer felt like he was wearing gauntlets.

With union came understanding, suddenly he knew who the voices were – previous occupants of the suit. They’d each left their imprint on it, and Marcheaux had a moment to wonder in horror if it had simply sucked the essence out of them, before a gold mist descended over his vision and he knew his single purpose in life was simply to kill.

The nearest obvious target was Grimaud, and Marcheaux lunged forward. He no longer saw him as a friend, no longer recognised him at all, but something in the suit acknowledged the authority in the blade raised so imperiously before him, and he turned away at the last moment with a frustrated snarl.

More targets were coming though. He could sense them, could make out distant voices that this time were not in his head. If he concentrated, he found he could even make out their heartbeats. Two, two people, he calculated, two people coming this way. Two adversaries to rend and tear.

Grimaud had noted the way Marcheaux suddenly swung round to face the entrance like a hunting dog, and smiled to himself. “Good boy,” he murmured. “Fetch. Kill.”

\--

Athos and Porthos emerged cautiously into the gallery leading to the burial chamber. All was quiet, but it wasn't an empty silence, and they both felt the tension on the air. Athos drew his gun, but he’d barely had time to raise it before a golden figure burst out of the doorway ahead and came charging down the corridor towards them.

Instinctively Athos fired, twice, but the shots glanced harmlessly off the armour. Before he could adjust his aim and try again Marcheaux was on him, driving him back against the stone wall with a thump that drove the breath from his lungs. 

Porthos promptly jumped onto the figure’s back and tried to drag him off, but a shot smacked into the wall near his head and he turned to see Grimaud approaching too, pistol in one hand, blade raised in the other. Porthos turned to face him, having to trust that Athos could deal with his own problems.

Athos was struggling for air. Golden fingers were locked around his throat, and his fingers slipped from the surface of the armour as uselessly as the bullets had. The sheer power within the metal form was shocking, and Athos had no doubt that it could snap his neck just as easily as choke the life out of him. The only confusion in his mind was why he was even still alive. 

The golden face was inches from his own, and Athos suddenly realised what he was looking at. His first assumption had been that the golden figure they’d found in the tomb had been some kind of automaton, a literal killing machine that Grimaud and Marcheaux had managed to activate. But this close, he discovered with a sense of shock that the face plate was actually a mask, and he was staring into the wide eyes of Marcheaux. 

"Help. Me." The words, forced out with difficulty, came not from Athos but Marcheaux. Athos gradually became aware that the vibrating tension in the fingers around his throat came not from a clumsy attempt to kill him, but from the fact that Marcheaux himself was fighting the suit’s murderous urge. The wild look in his eyes was not fury, or a determination to kill – but fear.

"How?" Athos' voice was equally hoarse; the metal hands might not have broken his neck, but he could barely breathe and was becoming increasingly dizzy.

"Get. Me. Out." Marcheaux ground out the words with a huge effort, too low for Grimaud to catch.

Grimaud was in any case otherwise occupied, rolling around on the floor of the gallery with Porthos, who'd knocked the gun out of his grasp but was currently endeavouring not to get stabbed. 

"Slot – in the casket. Blade acts like a key."

Athos finally managed to work a knee up between them and bracing his foot on Marcheaux’s armour, kicked him away with all his strength. Marcheaux fell backwards, hitting Grimaud on his way down and knocking him away from where he’d been engaged in bashing Porthos' head against the stone floor. 

Athos grabbed at Porthos and ran towards the burial chamber.

"Wrong way! Dead end!" Porthos protested.

"New plan." Athos skidded inside and ran over to the casket. "Can you get that spike Grimaud's wearing into this hole?"

"Depends. Can I chop his arm off?"

"Whatever works," Athos declared, and Porthos grinned at him. 

"What will you be doing?"

"Trying to stop Marcheaux killing me," Athos muttered, as the pair arrived in the doorway. He backed away from the casket, drawing Marcheaux's attention and dividing their focus. 

As he'd hoped, Grimaud lunged for Porthos again, and Athos found himself once more grappling with the implacable golden figure of Marcheaux. His earlier flicker of defiance seemed to have been overwhelmed by whatever forces were at work and this time there was no quarter given. A metal fist punched into the stonework near Athos' head, and he only just managed to roll aside in time.

"Porthos!" he cried, frantically impatient.

"Working on it!" came the tight reply. The point of Grimaud's blade was wavering dangerously just in front of his eyes, and Porthos had both hands wrapped around Grimaud's wrist in an attempt to hold him off. He was backed up against the sarcophagus, and discovering that while Grimaud might not have the superhuman strength of Marcheaux in the armour, he was still much stronger than he should have been.

With one last desperate heave, Porthos managed to twist so that the point sank past his head and into the slot in the casket below. He heard it snick home, and without releasing his grip on Grimaud’s arm looked him deliberately in the eyes, and twisted.

The crack of bone was sickeningly loud. Grimaud didn't utter a sound, although all the colour drained from his face. 

The blade had achieved its desired effect though, and Marcheaux staggered back as the armour finally clicked open. He scrambled out of it, wild eyed and horror-struck, letting the suit fall carelessly to the floor.

"You fool!" Grimaud spat, yanking the blade free and staggering back, cradling his arm. "You traitorous, spineless fool!"

"Screw you!" Marcheaux yelled indignantly. "That thing - it was in my head! I could feel it taking over, blotting out everything that I am. You want to become a zombie killing machine then fine, but I am drawing the damn line!"

Grimaud glared at him. The unnatural hunger in him was rising ever more sharply and he sensed that feeding would make him strong again – but what he didn't know was whether the recharged gauntlet would have the power to mend his broken arm. If it didn't, then for now he still needed Marcheaux.

With Marcheaux and Grimaud temporarily held at bay, Porthos examined the abandoned golden armour with interest, clearly wondering if he would fit inside. 

"Don't," said Athos quietly, and Porthos glanced up.

"I wasn't going to," he objected guiltily. "Still, you've got to admit it would be the best way of getting it out of here."

"Is losing yourself to it really worth the prize?" Athos asked, noting that Marcheaux still looked uncommonly pale and shaken by the experience.

"Perhaps," Porthos said vaguely. "Anyway, maybe you just have to be worthy of it."

"And that's you is it?"

Porthos looked up at him then, stung. "Why not? Why shouldn't I have it? What makes you so special?"

"Porthos - " 

"No, you know what? I've had it with you and your sanctimonious bullshit Athos. You're happy enough to have me around when I'm of use to you, but when it comes down to it you're not even willing to share. Stick the rest of it in a museum if you have to, but I'm having this. And if you want to stop me you'll have to shoot me." With that Porthos lifted up the golden armour and strode towards the door.

Distracted, Athos had taken his eye off the others and didn't react nearly quickly enough when they sprang forward. Marcheaux’s punch caught him square on the jaw and flung him backwards across the room, where he hit the stone sarcophagus and lay stunned.

In the doorway Porthos had hesitated, but Grimaud ignored Athos' sprawled form and went instead for the golden casket.

"Help me with this," he snapped, and Marcheaux hurried to oblige. It was in itself a prize worth having quite apart from its role in controlling the armoured suit. 

Porthos cast one last conflicted look at Athos where he lay groaning on the floor, and sighed. "I'm sorry," he breathed and turned away. If he could just make the armour he was dragging fit down the side passage he stood a chance of getting out before Grimaud caught up. If he reached Athos’ truck before anyone else, he'd be well away.

Grimaud and Marcheaux finally succeeded in hoisting the casket out of the sarcophagus, at which point there was an ominous clunk somewhere below the plinth and everyone automatically tensed.

"What have you done?" Athos had dragged himself groggily to his knees.

"It must have been on a counterweight." Marcheaux answered him automatically, staring in horror as large sections of the ceiling started to descend floorwards.

"Put it back!" Athos tried to lunge at the casket but Grimaud kicked out, catching him full in the chest and knocking him backwards. 

Before Athos could get up again, with the last of his enhanced strength Grimaud tipped the stone sarcophagus sideways off its plinth, trapping Athos partly beneath it directly in the path of one of the descending slabs. 

"You lose." Grimaud sneered down at him, before helping Marcheaux to drag the golden casket out of the room. 

Ducking under the rapidly reducing gap, they emerged into the passage to find Porthos was still there, watching the descending blocks in transfixed horror.

In the burial chamber Athos was desperately trying to free himself from the dead weight pinning his lower body to the floor. He could neither wriggle free nor contort himself enough to avoid the lowering masonry, and could only stare upwards in horror as it got steadily closer.

He was going to die. He was going to be crushed flat, and die horribly, unless – unless. 

"Help me!" Athos yelled, swallowing his pride as he accepted that above all else he wanted to live. "Porthos! Porthos, please!"

Out in the corridor, Porthos froze. He'd waited for Athos to emerge after the others, and been confused when he hadn't. Now he was left in a wary stand-off with Grimaud and Marcheaux. None of them were armed apart from Grimaud's blade, and that arm hung uselessly. 

Porthos looked down at the golden armour. This was what he'd come for. For all Athos knew, he'd already gone, was already out of hearing. If he went to help him, the others would claim his prize.

The grinding masonry was lower than ever, barely waist height now, not the slamming shut of a sprung trap, but the careful and deliberate sealing of the treasure chamber.

Athos yelled his name again, and there was an undisguised edge of fear to it that finally broke Porthos' resolve. 

He ran back past Grimaud and Marcheaux, who made no move to stop him but just stared in rather astonished disbelief as he ducked under the slab.

Seeing Athos’ predicament with a jolt of horror, Porthos dashed across the chamber to haul desperately at the heavy sarcophagus, finally prising it up just enough for Athos to pull himself free seconds before the descending slab would have cracked open his skull.

Too late now though, for either of them to slip underneath to safety. The masonry settled into place with an implacable bang that reverberated through the walls.

Panting, they realised they were holding onto each other, and abruptly let go. 

"Thank you," Athos said weakly.

Porthos shook his head slowly, looking round. "No point in thanking me," he said heavily. "All I've done is save you from a quick death and condemned us both to a slow one."

Athos, too, looked around the chamber. Piles of treasure had tumbled out of place and some of the torches had been crushed by the descending blocks. The space they were in was completely sealed off. 

He looked back at Porthos, shaken by the knowledge that he might have just caused both their deaths.

"I'm sorry."

Porthos waved it away irritably. "Save it. My own stupid fault. I should have damn well left you."

Athos winced, but said nothing. Together they examined the new masonry and came to the reluctant conclusion that unlike some of the other moving walls in the place, this had never been designed to go up again.

"Well. At least I'll die rich," Porthos said, throwing himself down in a pile of gold coins and running his hands through them gloomily. 

"We're not going to die," Athos insisted. "We'll find a way out. Or Aramis and d'Artagnan will come back, they know where we are."

“It'll take 'em years to drill through that lot,” Porthos pointed out. “We'll have starved to death by then. Or suffocated.” He suddenly looked worried. "Here, how much air do you think we've got?" 

Athos looked around, estimating the size of the chamber, then frowned. "There's a draught."

"You what?" 

"Look." Athos pointed at where some of the ancient hangings were drifting slightly. "We're not moving, the air in here should be quite still."

"So there's a vent." Porthos shrugged fatalistically. "Starvation it is then." He watched Athos walk over to the statue, seemingly judging the distance to the ceiling, and whether he could reach it. 

Athos reached up and grabbed a handful of the rotting silk. It fell to pieces in his hand, but he pulled at another length and the whole canopy that had been set over the sarcophagus and statue crumbed to dust.

“I’m surprised you didn’t insist on drawing that first,” Porthos called over snidely, but then he saw what Athos was looking at and sprang to his feet.

In the roof of the chamber, previously hidden by the canopy, was a dark opening leading straight up.

“What do you think?” Athos murmured. “Possibility? If it is an air vent it might even lead all the way to the outside.”

“Be under the sand then, won’t it?” Porthos argued. Athos frowned at him.

“Wouldn’t be a draught in that case, would there? Come on, cheer up, it has to go somewhere, right? Better than just sitting here waiting to die.”

“I’ll never fit through there,” Porthos sighed. “I’ll get stuck.”

Athos squinted up at the hole, then looked Porthos up and down with a critical eye. “I think you’d make it. I think it’s bigger than it looks. Come on, give me a leg up.”

Reluctantly Porthos made a stirrup for Athos’ foot and boosted him as high up the statue as he could. Athos scrambled upwards until he was sitting on the arm of the giant Alexander. He glanced into the faintly disapproving carved expression and smiled apologetically. “’Scuse us.” 

He reached down and helped Porthos climb up after him, until they were both balanced high up on the statue’s shoulders, peering into the black hole above. 

To Porthos’ relief it was marginally wider than it had looked from the ground, but not by much. Also it lead vertically upwards with no apparent handholds, which meant they’d have to work their way up by bracing their back against one side and inching along purely through the action of shoulders, feet and hands against the stonework. It promised to be excruciating.

“You want to go first?” Athos offered.

Porthos shook his head. “Nah. If I’m going to die wedged into a dark stone chimney, I might as well go with a decent view of your arse.”

\--


	13. Chapter 13

Athos rolled his eyes, but climbed up into the shaft without further argument. He felt guilty about Porthos being trapped here with him, and was quietly relieved by the man’s grudging shift back to humour, even if it was a poorly disguised front for his true feelings.

The stone duct was narrow, which on one hand made it easier for Athos to wedge himself in and not have to worry too much about falling, but on the other it made it difficult to bend his limbs enough to get a firm purchase on the walls. Weight supported on his shoulders and elbows, on his backside and the balls of his feet, Athos shuffled, caterpillar like, higher into the shaft. 

Scuffling below signified Porthos climbing in after him, and the muffled swearing that floated up suggested that Porthos was finding it even more uncomfortable than Athos. The light from the chamber below was now mostly blocked by Porthos’ body and Athos abruptly found himself in the unenviable position of climbing into utter blackness. With both hands needed for climbing he couldn’t use his torch, and in any case was becoming increasingly concerned about how long the battery was going to last.

For what felt like an age they inched their way painfully upwards, conscious every second that the drop beneath them was getting higher. Athos gradually became aware that Porthos’ breathing was becoming louder and harsher, and suddenly realised that the scraping sounds of Porthos climbing steadily beneath him had stopped.

“Porthos?” he called quietly, pressing his back more firmly against the stone and taking advantage of the brief respite to try and ease the aching pressure on each joint in turn. “You okay?”

For a second there was no reply, the faint echo of Porthos’ heavy breathing the only indication he was still there. 

“I’m stuck,” Porthos said finally, the words coming out as a gasp. “I can’t move.”

“Of course you can,” Athos said calmly, praying that Porthos didn’t panic. If he slipped from this height, he’d be killed. 

“It’s getting narrower,” Porthos insisted, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice. “I don’t want to die here Athos, I don’t want to die here in the dark.”

“Nobody’s going to die,” Athos promised him, hoping fervently that he was right. His own legs were in agony, they’d been badly bruised from the sarcophagus falling on him and he was starting to realise if they spent too long here without moving he’d be in danger of seizing up. If _he_ fell, he’d take Porthos out on the way down. 

“I’ve already come through where you are, nothing’s changed,” Athos continued, trying to keep his tone steady and encouraging. “There’s still plenty of room. You can do it.”

“I can’t!”

“Yes you can. Come on, it can’t be far now, we’re nearly there.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Come on Porthos. Don’t give up. You want Grimaud to get away with it all? You want to just sit in that room down there until we starve to death? Because I’m not leaving you, okay?” Athos stared blankly ahead into the darkness, willing Porthos to find the strength to pull himself together. “You’re not going to die down here, not alone, not in the dark. We are going to get out, I promise you.”

There was no reply, but after a second Porthos gave a grunt of renewed effort, and Athos heard him start to pull himself upwards again.

“That’s it. You can do it. _We_ can do it.” Athos gritted his teeth and hauled himself further up, muscles protesting all the way. 

Further torturous minutes dragged past. Needing all their strength just to keep going there was no further conversation, but each took a certain comfort from simply knowing the other was still there.

Unexpectedly reaching the top was almost their undoing. Athos’ arm suddenly found no wall above to brace himself on and he slipped sideways, one foot skidding off the stonework and hitting Porthos’ shoulder below.

Porthos yelled in startled shock at the impact, sliding back a few inches before managing to halt his descent, heart hammering and breathing hard.

“You alright?” Athos called down anxiously. 

“Yeah,” Porthos panted. “No thanks to you. What the hell happened?”

“I think we’re at the top.” Exploring cautiously with his hands, Athos established that whatever they’d come to there was enough room, and hauled himself out of the shaft. “Yes, come on, there’s a ledge, or – something.” Athos crawled away from the edge and collapsed, realising that wherever they were, it was apparently quite big.

Encouraged by this, Porthos found a new reserve of determination and a few seconds later was sprawled next to him on his back, groaning with relief and massaging life back into his aching limbs.

“Athos?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For – you know.”

“No problem.” Athos smiled in the dark, just relieved that they’d both made it. Where they’d made it _to_ , still remained to be seen. He felt in his bag for the torch. “Shall we see where we are?”

“If it’s a dead end, I’m never speaking to you again,” Porthos declared, although there was a certain exhausted laughter in his voice.

Athos sat up and clicked on the torch. The first thing he saw was Porthos blinking at him in the light, and he moved the beam out of his eyes with a murmured apology. They were in a stone room, much smaller than the one below, but still big enough to stand up in. Much less richly decorated than the previous chamber, this one contained nothing but two more stone sarcophagi.

Hearts sinking, they stared around in increasing disappointment. At first glance it seemed there was no way out. 

Finally recovering his breath from the climb, Porthos scrambled up and helped Athos to his feet. The draught they could still feel blowing through the space they finally traced to a much smaller hole in the ceiling, barely big enough to take a fist.

“Looks like only the rats get to escape from here,” Porthos said bitterly. 

"There must be another way," Athos insisted, refusing to give up. He considered the sarcophagi thoughtfully. "Those didn't get in here the same way we did. There must have been a door at some point."

Porthos joined him, watching the torchlight play across the carved inscription on the stone tomb. 

"Alexander," Athos said softly. "I did wonder, when the one below was empty. All that treasure - perhaps it was a blind, to distract thieves. He was up here all along."

"If this is Alexander, then who's in that one?" Porthos asked, looking dubiously at the second tomb.

Athos smiled faintly. "Someone he couldn't bear to be parted from perhaps? Even in death."

"Shall we have a look? Since we're here?" Porthos felt around the lip of the nearest sarcophagus, searching for a way to lever it open, but Athos shook his head.

"No. Let's leave them in peace." 

Porthos looked surprised by this sudden attack of sentiment, but didn't press the point. "Come on then genius," he said instead. "How do we get out of here?"

Athos was examining the walls, a task made harder by the fact that the torch's beam was by now a sickly yellow rather than the bright white of earlier. 

"Alexander was supposedly a God on Earth, right?" he reasoned. "To be brought here, interred in this way, preserved - the whole mythology of it - there would have been a certain symbolic expectation that he would rise again."

"But he didn't."

"No. He was just a man, after all. But I said symbolic. I mean, think about it, if the pharaohs really had started wandering about again after they'd been safely buried, it would have caused uproar. Not least for their successors. But that _idea_ of it - the risen god, the returning hero - that was key. And it all leads to the likelihood that - aha!" Athos looked up, expression triumphant.

"Likelihood of what?" Porthos prompted impatiently.

Athos pushed down on the hidden lever he'd found, and a section of the wall slid back.

"That they'd have built in a way for him to get out again."

Dumbfounded, Porthos stared into the blackness beyond, then grinned at him. "I could kiss you."

"Yes, well." Athos cleared his throat. "Let's not get too excited. We're not out of here yet."

Porthos snorted. "I've never met a man who could depress me again as quickly as you."

Athos half-laughed. "Sorry. Just being realistic."

"Pessimistic," Porthos grumbled, following him out of the chamber into the passage beyond. "The word is pessimistic."

\--

For some time they worked their way down through a maze of narrow passages, hoping all the time to come across one of the torchlit corridors of earlier that would lead them out. They seemed to have found their way back into the network of service tunnels whose twists and turns had so disoriented them earlier, but at least they were moving. Both had been secretly afraid they would come up against more of the massive defensive blocks barring the way, but progress, if meandering, had been so far unhampered.

By devising an arbitrary system of choosing alternately left and right passages whenever there was an option, or the downward leading path in the event that one lead back up, they had come across very few dead ends until finally reaching a bolted door.

"Service entrance?" Porthos suggested hopefully.

"Let's find out." Athos reached out to unfasten it, but no sooner had he pulled back the bolt than the door lurched towards him, the latch springing free under the weight of enormous pressure on the other side. Sand poured in around the edge of the door as Athos struggled to push it closed again.

"Leave it," Porthos cried, as they both fought to stop the door being forced fully open, coughing and spluttering as the loose sand showered over them. "Run!"

Abandoning the door as a lost cause they both turned and ran, a torrent of silken, whispering sand chasing at their heels. Pounding back the way they'd come, they finally passed another door that had been standing open, and throwing their whole weight against it, slammed it closed across the passage.

A trickle of sand bled through beneath, but to their relief, it held. 

Athos, bruised legs protesting at the sudden burst of effort, slid down to sit on the stone floor before they gave way entirely. Porthos dropped down next to him, and for a while they just sat there, recovering from their narrow escape. 

"So. Not that way then," Porthos said eventually, with a masterful level of understatement. Athos gave a helpless splutter of laughter.

"Not that way," he agreed.

"We're on the right track though," Porthos said, determined to be positive. "That must mean we've reached the entrance level. And before, we came out of that hall one way, and Aramis and d’Artagnan a different way, and we ran into them. So there has to be a way through from here to the way we first came in. We just have to find it."

To save the torch battery they'd both taken the opportunity to light a couple of the occasional wall sconces and were making their way by flickering firelight. The wavering flames made the shadows leap and flutter confusingly, so they were almost at the end of a passage when Porthos grabbed Athos' sleeve and held a warning finger to his lips. 

"Light," he whispered. "Up ahead."

They crept closer, wary of walking into trouble, and peered around the corner. To their rather tired relief, the corridor ahead was empty. It was also wide and lit by several torches, and they were fairly sure it was the way they'd originally come in.

"We've made it!" Porthos exclaimed. "It can't be far now. Come on!" Ignoring Athos' protests to be careful, he hurried on ahead up the slope. 

Athos followed more slowly, refusing to get his hopes up until he could actually feel the daylight on his face. Up ahead he could hear what sounded like noises of consternation mingled with a lot of swearing, but as Porthos sounded more cross than alarmed, he plodded on at the same pace until he turned the corner and saw what the problem was.

Across the passage, the way was blocked. Huge stones had come down from the roof as they had in the burial chamber, utterly immovable and barring the way out.

Porthos was the picture of dejection, sitting slumped on a object in the middle of the passage with his chin in his hands. They'd come so close, that to be denied at the last moment was almost unbearable. But it was what he was sitting on that distracted Athos from his initial spike of disappointment.

"Is that...?"

"Yeah." Porthos looked up at him and summoned a rueful smile. "For all the good it does us." He was sitting on the golden casket from the tomb, apparently abandoned by Grimaud and Marcheaux for reasons unknown, although Athos could easily speculate.

"They must have realised they were running out of time. Seen more blocks coming down over the entrance and had to leave it behind."

"Suppose it's too much to hope they got squashed under there," Porthos muttered. 

"Is the armour inside it?" Athos asked curiously, but Porthos shook his head. 

"Nah. They must have got away with that alright. It was bulky, but not as heavy as it looked." He looked gloomy again, at the thought that for a couple of glorious minutes he'd actually had it in his grasp.

Athos perched next to him on the edge of the casket, and sighed.

"So how long does it take to starve to death?" Porthos asked after a moment's silence.

"And you said I was the pessimistic one," Athos objected. 

"I suppose we could flip a coin. See who gets to donate a limb."

"If that's a veiled request for me to eat you, I'm ignoring it." 

Porthos gave a snort of laughter, giving him a sideways look. "Oh, here. You should probably have these." He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it over. Athos looked at the items in surprise. His notebook, and the original tablet that had lead them here.

"Where did you get these?" Athos gave Porthos a curious look, clearly wondering if he'd had them all along, and Porthos bristled at the unvoiced accusation.

"They were in the burial chamber, weren't they? The first one, I mean. Found 'em when I was sitting on the gold. Our friends Marcheaux and Grimaud must have ditched them."

"And you didn't give them to me then because...?"

Porthos shrugged. "I suppose I wasn't in the best of moods with you right then. I thought I was going to die because of you. Didn't see why I should do you any favours."

"And now?" Athos asked, thinking that the overall situation hadn't really changed much.

"Life's too short to argue," Porthos sighed. "Literally, if we can't figure a way out." He nodded hopefully at the notebook and carving. "I thought they might help?"

Athos pursed his lips. "To be honest, probably not," he admitted. "This inscription details the journey here, not really how to get out again." 

Recalling the sketch he'd made of the seal on the entrance, Athos took out the folded drawing intending to file it neatly away in the notebook. Something made him open it up to have a look, and he stared at it, suddenly lost in thought.

"What is it?" Porthos asked cautiously, not wanting to break his train of thought but impatient to know if Athos thought they might still have a chance of escape.

"This was the design on the seal, right?" Athos said, smoothing the paper out on his knee. 

"Guess there was a curse after all," Porthos muttered. "I should have stayed well out of it."

"Forget the text," Athos said. "Look at the design. These superimposed triangles - they represent the Egyptian symbol for spirit - as in a combination of the elements. Earth, air, fire, water and so on."

"Like where we came in?" Porthos suggested, recalling the glyphs on the wall.

"Exactly. And that was what the tablet says too, enter through the earth, or something like that. It's how we figured out the way through." Athos looked up. "But look at it another way. The triangles could represent the pyramid, right? In which case the symbol here, for earth, represents the way we came in, through the cliff. And this one, here, for fire - could be the entrance facing south, to the desert?"

"I guess," Porthos conceded dubiously. "You're about to get to a point, though, right? No rush."

Athos gave him a pointed look, then returned his attention to the sketch. "There's a third symbol. Here. It means water."

"I thought water was a wavy line?"

"Yes, it can be, it's used in blocks of text quite often, as a letter. This though, this inverted triangle refers more to the _concept_ of water, as an element, as an alchemical symbol," Athos mused, tracing the shape with his finger.

"Could it mean the oasis?" 

"It could. But if we take this design as a literal map, then that would be back here, some way behind the symbol for earth. This shows it clearly at a different angle."

"There could be a spring rising under the hills somewhere?" Porthos reasoned. "Feeding the lake?"

"It's certainly an idea. My point is, if we take it in context with the other two - I think it indicates that there's a third way out."

Porthos was briefly seized with excitement and leapt to his feet, only to consider the daunting task before them and slowly sat down again. "How do we find it though? Do we have to look for a carving that matches this symbol, like on the way in? There's thousands of them in here, it'd take years."

"There's just one possibility, that I can see," Athos said. "Although see's possibly not the right word. Assuming it's running water this refers to, and not the entrance to a well or something - there's just a chance we'll be able to hear it." 

\--

Working on the assumption that the third entrance, if it existed, would be away from the side facing the desert, they worked their way back through the passages deeper into the tomb. Their compasses were still oddly unreliable, but they were starting to find they recognised certain sections now, and this time marked out their route with chalk arrows. 

Athos had been trying to create a rough map of the place in his notebook, and despite twice coming up against more of the massive blocks barring their way, they managed to work their way across and down into a section of the tunnels they were both sure they hadn't seen before.

Walking slowly, they stopped frequently to listen for any distant echo that might lead them to a water source, occasionally pressing their ears to the walls or floor. 

After a while they stumbled across an unexpected network of store rooms, some filled with further treasures that had presumably been sent as tribute to Alexander but hadn't been deemed impressive enough to take pride of place in the burial chamber. Some of the rooms seemed to have been used as living quarters, perhaps for those that had overseen the construction, and had an eerie feeling to them, as if the occupants had just stepped out.

"You don't think they walled them up in here do you?" Porthos asked uncomfortably. "Wasn't unknown."

"If they did, they might have lived on in here for years," Athos mused. "Given the size of some of the store rooms - mind you," he added, turning suddenly to look at Porthos as an idea struck him. "They wouldn't have lasted long without water. If there is a source, I'm betting we're close."

"On the other hand, there's no bodies," Porthos pointed out, sounding faintly relieved. "So they might not have."

"True. I still think this is our best shot though." They explored the rooms, fascination mingling with the uncomfortable prickling feeling of somehow being trespassers in another world. The burial chambers with their ceremonial settings had been one thing, but this domestic debris of distant lives lived and perhaps ended in the silence of the tomb left them with the creeping sensation that any moment they might round a corner to find a group of the ancient dead, silently watching them.

Increasingly jumpy, the distant noise at first made them exchange wary glances to see if the other had heard it too. Gradually though, the echoing rattle became identifiable as the rushing of water, and they almost ran through the last couple of chambers in an attempt to locate it. At last, in the far wall of what proved to be a dead-end, was a metal grille with a dark, empty space beyond. 

The light of the torches revealed fast flowing black water beyond the bars, running through a channel in the rock. It looked cold and surprisingly deep. It was also utterly out of reach.

"Now what do we do?" Athos groaned, looking at the bars standing between them and potential escape. "Wish we had lifted some of Grimaud's explosive when we had the chance now."

"Leave this to me," Porthos told him, and wrapping his hands carefully in some sacking torn from one of the ancient stockpiles, seized hold of one of the bars. Despite being strongly made, the proximity to the water over the years had rusted them badly, and they were slightly loose in their settings. Porthos heaved and grunted, adjusted his grip, heaved again and after a moment's straining effort, the bar finally cracked loose. 

Porthos staggered backwards, cackling in triumph. "How about that?"

"Very impressive," Athos murmured. "Now you just have to do it about six more times before we can fit through."

"No pleasing some people," Porthos muttered, but he set to and in the space of a few minutes had made a wide enough gap for them to get past.

The next problem quickly became apparent. Having squeezed through the bars onto a rocky ledge above the water, the torchlight revealed that the opening only extended a little way in each direction. The water emerged from, and disappeared into a low hole in the rock leaving no breathing space above the surface.

"There are probably other spaces further along where it opens out, like this one," Athos said uncertainly. "Maybe it's just a case of ducking under for long enough to reach each one."

"Or not, and we could drown," Porthos pointed out with a shudder.

"This is definitely marked as an entrance," Athos said. "There _must_ be a way through."

"What's definite about it? It was a theory a minute ago. Besides, when this place was built you could probably have strolled out the front door into the desert. Who's to say the water level hasn't changed over the years, like the sand did? Maybe once you could happily paddle all the way down to the oasis, doesn't mean to say you still can."

Athos shrugged helplessly. "I don't see that we have a choice. Like you say, the alternative is staying trapped here and starving to death." He took a deep breath. "On balance, I'm willing to risk it."

Porthos pouted, but eventually sighed and gave in. "Alright. I'm game."

"I'm sorry," Athos said quietly. "You're only stuck here because of me."

Porthos waved this away. "I'd never have forgiven myself if I'd left you to die," he admitted. "At least this way we both have a chance, right?"

"Right." They looked at each other solemnly, realising the extreme odds against either of them surviving this. 

"Here goes nothing then." Porthos reached out, and for a moment they clasped hands tightly in wordless understanding that there was nothing more to be said.

They slipped into the water together. After heat of the desert and the dry warmth of the tomb, the cold came as a shock that took their breath away. 

With no way of knowing if they would emerge in daylight or another cave, Athos had wrapped the electric torch as tightly as possible in oilskin from his bag, and tucked it into his shirt in the hope it would survive the ducking. His bag he was having to leave behind in case it dragged him under, and they'd both taken off their boots. 

Holding onto the ledge, they worked their way as close as possible to the place the stream disappeared into the rock.

Athos nodded. "See you on the other side," he said, and taking as deep a breath as he could, ducked under the water.

The force of the current snatched at him immediately, and he found himself shooting forward far faster than he could swim. Reaching out in an attempt to steer, his hand smacked into an unseen rock and the shock of the impact almost made him gasp out the precious lungful of air.

Chest burning and utterly disoriented in the pitch black water, Athos kicked out in the hope he was aiming up and not down, reaching out blindly in the hope of finding an air pocket.

Again his hand met nothing but rock, skinning his knuckles painfully. 

Clamping his lips shut and trying to swallow against the urge to breathe in, he tried again a moment later, only to this time graze his head against the rock ceiling.

With no idea how far he'd come, Athos could feel his body fighting to breathe in. He knew it was only a matter of time before the instinct would override his willpower, and then it would be all over. A distant part of his mind reflected there was a certain irony about managing to drown in the middle of the desert, it was just a shame that no-one would ever know to appreciate it.

Strength failing, lungs bursting, his limbs numb and heavy from the cold, Athos struck out one more time - and finally his hand broke the surface.

Fighting the current, he pushed upwards with the last of his resolve and found his head emerging into empty space. It was pitch dark, but he could _breathe_ , and Athos sucked in a desperate, ragged breath of relief.

Something in the water knocked against his leg and Athos jumped, mind immediately leaping to unseen monsters in the dark until he realised what it must be and hastily groped under the water.

His searching fingers brushed something that might have been an arm and he seized hold, yanking desperately upwards. Initial flailing resistance turned into Porthos gripping hold of him fiercely, coughing and spluttering and finally heaving great sobbing breaths into his aching lungs.

By now Athos had found purchase on the rocky wall and was wedged behind a stone outcrop, holding them back against the pull of the current that threatened to tear them both away again into the darkness.

"Where are we?" Porthos' voice out of the darkness sounded indignant, and Athos had the sudden peculiar urge to start laughing hysterically. 

"I have no idea," he managed instead. "But we're not dead yet, which is an improvement on where we might have been." Once he was satisfied that Porthos had a hold of his own on the rocky bank, Athos started exploring further out of the water and soon established there was enough room to climb out completely. 

Shivering, he knelt on the rock and felt for the torch, praying silently that it would still work.

The click of the switch brought a thin, pale light, but it was the most welcome thing he'd seen all day. It revealed they were crouched on a wide-ish stone ledge beside the water, which vanished a few feet further on into another hole where the rock came right back down to the surface.

The second most welcome sight was a dark opening that lead further into the cliff and away from the water. 

"I vote we go that way," Porthos said immediately, before Athos could say anything. "I can't do that again. I'm sorry, I just can't."

"No. I can't say I'm keen to risk it again myself," Athos agreed. He was shivering bodily now, and knew that they had to start moving, had to try and get back a degree of warmth into their bodies regardless of how tired they were. 

"Come on." Athos forced himself to get to his feet and held out a hand, helping Porthos up after him. They leant on each other a little unsteadily, bracing themselves for the final push. Quite apart from anything else, one of the most pressing imperatives was now the failing torch. It was getting fainter almost as they watched, and would occasionally flicker alarmingly.

Something turned under Porthos' foot and he looked down. A fragment of skull leered up at him, and he kicked it away in revulsion. As they moved forward, they gradually realised the whole ledge was carpeted with crumbling bones and oddments of clothing and armour.

"I think we found the previous occupants," Porthos muttered, wishing he still had his boots on. 

"How did they end up here though? Does that mean there's no way out?" Athos wondered, as they made their way down the narrow passage. It opened out again almost immediately into a larger chamber, and their initial relief was tempered by the fact they were now faced with multiple passages leading off.

"Great," Porthos sighed. "We could get more lost down here than in the tomb. How the hell do we know which one leads out?"

"This one," said Athos, in an odd voice. 

"How do you know?" 

"Because it says so." Athos moved out of the way so Porthos could see the neat writing chalked on the wall. He stared.

"Who the bloody hell wrote that?"

"Well as I presume your average Ancient Egyptian didn't speak French, I'm guessing Marcheaux or Grimaud."

Porthos stared at him. "You know what that means? We must be down behind the other gate."

Athos looked round warily. "Which means it's possible those shadow things are still down here."

They both instinctively glanced down at the faltering torch, then at each other.

"Let's not hang around," Porthos declared.

They hurried up the twisting passage through the rock as fast as they could manage. Eyes fixed firmly ahead and resisting the temptation to peer nervously into the darker shadows, it felt like they were keeping the increasingly dim torch alight by sheer force of will alone. 

Eventually, the inevitable happened. The bulb flickered one last time and the weak light went out completely. Athos shook it anxiously, clicking the switch on and off a few times, but it remained resolutely dead. 

"We can just feel our way out, right?" Porthos said uncertainly. "We must be nearly at the top by now. If those things leave us alone..." he tailed off. "It's this way, yeah?" Realising with a spike of suppressed panic that since he'd turned around while Athos was fiddling with the torch he was no longer a hundred percent sure which way lead out and which way lead back into the cliff.

Athos snorted. "If you're pointing right now I can't actually see you, you know," he muttered - and then realised with some surprise that he could. As his eyes got used to the dark, he discovered that he could just make out Porthos' outline against the curve of the tunnel.

"There's light," he blurted. "Up ahead, look." 

They stumbled towards it, too desperate to escape the blackness of the cave to worry about whether the source of the light might be friend or foe.

To their great relief they found themselves emerging as hoped from the original gateway in the cliff, with no sign of Grimaud or anyone else nearby.

"We made it." Athos sounded hoarse with surprise, and Porthos clapped him on the back.

"Course we did. Never doubted it for a second."

They exchanged smiles, and then, briefly, embraced.

Walking the short distance out from the shadow of the encircling cliffs to emerge on the edge of the oasis felt like stepping into a warm and comforting blanket. Still dripping wet from the underground river, the heat of the desert for once was a welcome tonic, and Athos peeled off his soaking jacket, making a face.

"I'll be glad to get some dry clothes," he said. "Assuming Grimaud hasn't made off with everything we left behind."

Investigation revealed that the campsite was largely as they'd left it - with one big exception.

"They've taken the truck," Athos sighed. "I suppose it was too much to hope they wouldn't. At least they've left us the camels. We won't have to walk back to Siwa." He'd hoped to raise a smile but Porthos was staring into the distance, looking unexpectedly bleak.

"We'll never catch them up now. To think that a few hours ago I had everything I wanted literally in my grasp," Porthos said bitterly. "And what have I got to show for it now? Nothing."

"You've still got me," Athos ventured. 

"Ffff. Yeah." Porthos sounded less than impressed with this on balance, but then looked sideways at him, giving Athos a more speculative look as he wondered whether his words implied more than at first apparent. 

"Does that mean you're likely to be quite grateful then?" he hazarded, reaching out to toy with a strand of Athos' wet hair that had fallen over his face, twisting it round his finger. Athos was pale with pain and exhaustion and currently looked like a drowned rat, but still somehow managed to be one of the most unfairly attractive men Porthos had ever met. 

"Very," Athos agreed quietly, not pulling away from the intimate gesture. Somewhere inside he knew he had a whole host of reasons why it would be a bad idea, but he'd reached the end of his endurance on so many levels, that just the simple thought of being held was dangerously appealing right now.

"Huh." Porthos nodded to himself vaguely, a smile creeping back. "Maybe we should - think about making camp for the night then." The sun was starting to slide down behind the hills, and they were both just about dead on their feet - although he reckoned he could probably summon a second wind if Athos was minded to be amenable. But - 

"Not here," Athos said. "I'd prefer to be as far away from here as possible by the time we lose the light," he explained, at Porthos' frown of enquiry. 

Porthos looked round at the lengthening shadows and the darker pools of blackness around the entrances to the cliff, and shuddered. "Yeah, alright. I take your point."

Having first established that Porthos' motorcycle had also gone, hoping fervently that it meant Aramis and d'Artagnan had got safely on their way, they changed into dry clothes and packed their remaining belongings as quickly as possible onto two of Grimaud's camels. Leaving the rest free to roam the oasis, they set off north east on the road back to Siwa.

\--

The sun was almost completely down when they finally stopped in the lee of a sand dune to make camp for the night. They'd brought firewood with them, and the merry blaze was very welcome. The last of the day's warmth had mostly thawed them out from their swim, but they were still both prone to the occasional convulsive shivering fit.

A much needed meal went further towards helping them recover their spirits, but as Athos lay back to rest afterwards, Porthos noticed him wince.

"You in pain?" he asked quietly. 

Athos rubbed his legs ruefully. "A little. Suppose I should just be grateful I didn't break anything," he sighed.

"Let me see." Porthos shuffled closer solicitously, and Athos gave him an amused look.

"Is this just an excuse to get my trousers off?"

Porthos looked innocent. "No?" He grinned. "That's more by way of a bonus."

Athos laughed, but he wriggled out of them anyway, and Porthos couldn't help sucking in a breath at the mass of bruises mottling his skin.

"Ouch." 

"My thoughts exactly," Athos said wryly. "But it could have been worse. I'll live."

"You should get someone to kiss it better for you," Porthos murmured, shifting closer still until their shoulders were touching.

Athos couldn't help smiling. He'd never met anyone as blatant as Porthos, and once you'd got over feeling faintly scandalised all the time, it was quite flattering. 

He knew he shouldn't give in. He knew that Porthos probably had a well-practised seduction technique and he was in no way special, but on the other hand he was just so tired, and they'd nearly died, and they were miles from anywhere and anyone who might care. 

Athos leaned back into the reassuringly firm bulk of Porthos' shoulder and looked up at him. Without saying another word, Porthos kissed him softly on the mouth.

\--


	14. Chapter 14

Finding Athos responsive, the kiss melted into something deeper and warmer as Porthos gathered him into his arms. Porthos’ kisses were gentle at first and they lay down together in the nest of blankets, both taking and giving comfort until the hardships and the fears of all that they’d been through seemed a safely distant memory.

Gradually, items of clothing had been shed until they were both naked under the blankets, warm from the fire and from each other’s skin, and the increasingly heated kisses.

“Don’t suppose you’ve still got that Vaseline?” Porthos murmured eventually, looking suggestively expectant and privately hoping it hadn’t been in the bag Athos had had to leave in the tomb. 

Athos stifled a laugh. “I might have,” he teased. Porthos bent over him, trailing kisses down his stomach and continuing low enough to make Athos catch his breath. He rolled over to hunt through his bag, while Porthos promptly turned his attentions to Athos’ back instead.

“Here.” Athos turned back holding the little tin, but then held it out of the way when Porthos reached for it. “Uh-uh. My turn,” he said firmly.

Porthos studied him for a beat then smiled. “Like that is it?”

“If you’re agreeable.”

Porthos inclined his head. “I wouldn’t for everyone. But as it’s you.”

“I’ll consider myself suitably honoured,” Athos said with a slight smile. “And you needn’t worry about anyone finding out, if that’s what concerns you.” 

Porthos laughed. “You’re a gentleman. Promise me one thing though?”

“What?” 

Porthos nodded at the tin. “There’s no sand got in that.”

Athos spluttered with horrified laughter and Porthos tackled him back down into the blankets, grinning triumphantly.

For the next hour they made love under the bright desert stars. It had less of the frantic passion of their first time about it, and more of a quiet intensity as now they took the time to explore each other, drawing out the pleasure and the slowly building climax. 

Afterwards they said little, but lay wrapped together staring up at the vast night sky above them, thinking about how many thousands of years previously Alexander had travelled through the same desert and looked up at the same moon and stars. 

“Alexander wouldn’t have let them get away with nicking his armour,” Porthos murmured, on the brink of sleep.

Athos turned his head to look at him, refraining from pointing out that Porthos had been intending to do exactly the same thing. “We’ll find them,” he said instead, patting Porthos reassuringly on the stomach. “They won’t get away with this.”

In the night they woke twice. The first time Porthos woke with a start to hear a distant hooting howl echoing over the sands, and shook Athos awake in alarm.

“Do you hear that? What the hell is it?”

Athos opened one eye, and grunted. “It’s just the wind. Go back to sleep.”

“The wind?” Porthos demanded incredulously, having half-convinced himself that all the eldritch spirits of the tomb had decided to chase them across the desert.

“It’s the cliff,” Athos mumbled, pulling the blanket over his head. “It does that.” Choosing to ignore the fact that the first time he’d heard it, he’d been equally perturbed. 

Porthos looked dubious, but he was dog tired and it was quite hard to stay alarmed in the face of Athos’ stoic dismissal so he lay down again. Still uneasy, he was touched when Athos silently wriggled closer and snuggled up against him. Porthos lay awake until the distant cacophony finally died away, only to find it insinuating itself into his dreams.

Athos on the other hand, having fallen asleep again immediately, found himself plunged into a nightmare. He was under the water, unable to breathe and finding nothing but a solid surface above him no matter how many times he tried to strike upwards. When it seemed like his lungs would surely burst he finally jerked awake, choking around the sensation of water in his mouth and up his nose, heart racing.

“Fuck.” Athos shuddered, forcing himself to lie back down but half-scared of going back to sleep in case the same dream should still be lurking on the other side.

“W’ss’mat’r?” Porthos muttered, still mostly asleep but disturbed by Athos’ thrashing about.

“Nothing,” Athos lied, still short of breath. “Bad dream, that’s all.” 

Porthos snuffled something incomprehensible, but in the next moment had rolled over and enveloped Athos in his arms, settling back down at his side. He was soon snoring quietly into the crook of Athos’ neck, and Athos found himself slowly relaxing back into sleep.

\--

In the morning, Porthos was disconcerted to wake to an altogether chillier reception. Athos was already risen and dressed, and was in the process of trying to saddle the camels.

Porthos watched him for a while, fondly at first, then with a slight sinking feeling as he realised Athos was perfectly aware he was awake, but hadn’t so much as turned in his direction.

Porthos dressed quickly, and grabbing a handful of dates and some rather stale bread, made his way over.

Athos barely glanced at him, just gave him the briefest nod, and carried on making a hash of trying to get the saddle to sit right.

“Now what have I done?” Porthos sighed. He was too tired to fight, and in any case had thought the previous night’s activities had been entirely mutually agreeable. Somehow they’d gone from soft and warm to cold and frosty, and he seemed to have missed something in between.

“You haven’t done anything,” Athos said tightly. 

“Then why won’t you look at me?” Porthos walked deliberately into his line of sight and leaned against the camel’s flank, determinedly chewing a piece of bread into submission. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just think – it was perhaps a mistake. No good can come of dwelling on it, so can we please just get on?”

Athos had woken with a burning sense of guilt and renewed shame. The night before he’d been tired and low, his emotional defences non-existent, and he’d welcomed both the comfort and the catharsis offered by the sex. But in the cold light of the desert sunrise all his previous anxieties and social inhibitions had flooded back, and he found himself paralysed with embarrassment when he thought about not just what they’d done, but how easily he felt he’d bared his soul.

“A mistake?” Porthos glared at him, feeling like he’d been slapped. “Why’d you sleep with me then, if that’s how you feel about it?”

“Like you said, I owed you,” said Athos stiffly. 

Porthos grabbed him by the arm and spun him round. “No.” He stared at Athos, stricken. “No, that’s horrible, don’t you dare say that. You can’t think for one minute I’d have wanted that?”

For a long tense moment Athos stared back at him, then relented, sagging slightly.

“No. Alright. I wanted to,” he confessed under his breath.

Porthos heaved a sigh of relief. “Was it so bad?” he asked, more gently. 

“You know it wasn’t.” Athos looked at him sadly. “But nothing can come of it. What’s the sense in making it into something it can never be?”

"Who says it can’t?"

"The world, Porthos, as you know full well. I have my reputation to consider."

"Well I hope your reputation keeps you warm at night," Porthos said stiffly. He watched Athos fiddling futilely with the straps for a while longer, then couldn’t resist another jibe. “You’re doing that all wrong you know.”

“Oh for - ” Athos threw up his hands and marched off, leaving Porthos to it.

The day’s ride proved long and tedious. Barely speaking, they plodded on through the monotonous sand for hour after hour, both wishing they were anywhere but there. When the sun finally started edging towards the horizon Porthos hoped they could patch things up over a shared meal, but Athos showed no signs of stopping to make camp.

“Are we going to stop for the night, or what?” Porthos asked eventually, as the twilight gathered around them and the heat of the day eased into a pleasant coolness.

“The camels can keep on for ages at this pace,” Athos said. “If we want to be in with a chance of catching up Grimaud, I vote we keep going.”

Porthos sighed, but didn’t object. Athos was right, although Porthos suspected his motives stemmed more from not wanting to make awkward conversation. Or maybe he was worried Porthos would make a pass at him if they stopped to sleep. The thought irritated Porthos no end, and he glared at Athos through the dusk. Athos, lost in his own thoughts, didn’t even notice.

The moon rose, creeping across the sky and throwing dark shadows in the lee of the sand dunes. Passing overhead, it was soon sailing a downward path and still they rode steadily on. 

Porthos was yawning more and more frequently and noticed that Athos was slumped in his saddle, occasionally sliding to the side and sharply catching himself, clearly on the brink of falling asleep.

“Look, this is stupid, I’m going to fall asleep and fall off,” Porthos called, on the grounds that Athos clearly wasn’t going to give in first and looked in imminent danger of hurting himself. “You carry on if you must, personally I’m getting a few hours’ shut-eye.”

Athos reined in without comment. It was too dark to see if he looked relieved, but Porthos couldn’t help noticing that he took himself off to eat his supper a little distance away from where Porthos had sat down.

“You don’t have to worry,” Porthos snapped. “I don’t sleep with people who aren’t interested.”

Athos still made no reply, but he sat hunched over dejectedly, eating his meal with all the outward enjoyment of a man who tasted nothing but ashes.

There was no firewood left, and the pair of lanterns gave off light but no heat. Porthos realised Athos was rubbing his arms as if cold, and also that he, Porthos, was sitting on both blankets. He debated holding out and forcing Athos to ask for one, then realised that the man was probably stubborn enough to freeze to death first.

Porthos draped one of the blankets around his shoulders and got up, walking over to where Athos was sitting and lifting up one corner, settling down next to him so the blanket was wrapped around them both.

For a second Porthos wondered if Athos would get up and leave, but after a moment he sighed.

“I’m sorry,” said Athos quietly.

Porthos relaxed, and risked putting an arm around Athos’ shoulders. To his relief, after a moment’s tension Athos leaned against him. It seemed a truce had been reached.

“You know, I’ve never cared what people think of me,” Porthos said after a while.

“That must be nice,” Athos said a little wistfully. Then gave a wry smile. “Until you’re up on a charge of gross indecency, anyway.”

Porthos laughed quietly. “From what I hear, Siwa’s about the last town in the world to care about that. Maybe we should stick around.”

Athos looked up at him. “You’d be bored of me within a month,” he said softly. 

Porthos frowned. He’d been assuming all this time that Athos was just tediously repressed, but he suddenly realised Athos really did expect to be simply used and abandoned. 

“Do you always value yourself so lightly?” he asked.

Athos gave him a sad smile. “Tell me I’m wrong.” He stroked a hand over Porthos’ cheek and for a second Porthos thought he was going to kiss him, but Athos just sighed. “Goodnight Porthos,” he murmured, and lay down on the sand with his back to him.

Porthos fetched the other blanket and lay down behind him, covering them both snugly, and feeling glad when Athos didn’t object to his proximity.

“For the warmth,” he breathed, as he pressed up against Athos’ back and risked slipping an arm around his waist. 

Athos nodded, but said nothing. After a second though, he covered Porthos’ hand with his own.

Porthos felt a tight pang of something in his chest, although whether it was love or tears, he couldn’t quite be sure. He pushed the thought of both away with equal firmness. Athos was right, albeit wrong about the reasons. The dream of settling down with each other out here could only ever be that; there were factors at play that Porthos hadn’t – couldn’t – confide to him.

They at least appeared to be friends again, and Porthos would take that, take this closeness, over the cold rift they’d nearly fallen into. He imagined it would take him a long time to fall asleep tonight, his head full of conflicted yearning, but pressed against Athos’ warm back and lulled by his breathing, Porthos was asleep in minutes.

\--

The next day the mood was noticeably lighter, and they resumed their journey in better temper. By mid-morning Siwa was in view, and as they travelled the last few miles, Porthos raised a new concern.

“How are we going to find the others? The place is huge.” 

“If I was Aramis, I’d take rooms at the same place we stayed before,” said Athos vaguely, staring down at the sprawling oasis town that now lay before them.

“Huh. I can see why you’re in charge.”

Athos gave him a look. “Oh shut up,” he retorted, but he wasn’t quick enough to hide the slight smile that tugged at his lips, and Porthos’ spirits rose accordingly. 

“Race you,” he said suddenly, and spurred his camel into a reluctant trot that quickly became a swaying gallop as they plunged down the final incline towards the town gate.

“What – ? Hey!” Athos belatedly gave chase, out of instinct more than anything. He closed the gap between them, but was still several lengths behind when Porthos reached the edge of the town and slithered to the ground without bothering to make his camel kneel.

He bowed mockingly to Athos as he finally caught up. “What kept you?”

Athos shook his head despairingly. “You cheated.”

“Still won.”

“Tell me. Does winning feel the same when you know you cheated to achieve it?” Athos asked.

“See, the key word for me in that sentence is winning,” Porthos grinned. “All the sportsman-like behaviour in the world means squat if you come last.”

“Personally I prefer to maintain at least a veneer of integrity,” Athos retorted, joining him on the road. Still bickering, they lead the camels into the bustle of the town.

Heading towards the rooming-house where Athos had stayed previously, neither dared voice the fear that Aramis might not be there after all. They clung to the fact that both vehicles had gone from the oasis, meaning the others must at least have safely navigated their way out of the tomb. That they hadn’t passed them on the road suggested in turn they must have made it back to Siwa. 

With all this reasoning in mind, it was still a considerable relief to find Aramis occupying the same table in the square – and not just Aramis. Sitting next to him with his injured arm in a sling but otherwise looking entirely cheerful, was d'Artagnan.

The reunion was a joyful one; all parties had been secretly convinced they'd never see the others again and d'Artagnan had been experiencing crushing and unwarranted guilt at inadvertently being the cause of them abandoning the others.

Large quantities of coffee and food were quickly ordered to revive the weary travellers. While they ate Aramis and d'Artagnan recounted their relatively uneventful journey back and the following tedious hours spent in the local hospital, before demanding in turn that Athos and Porthos relate in detail everything that had happened to them since they'd last been together.

"I don't suppose there's been any sign of Grimaud or Marcheaux?" Athos asked, without much hope, once all stories had been told.

"No – although yesterday two men were found murdered in one of the alleyways near here," Aramis told them. "Rumours started circulating that it was an unnatural death, so I managed to get talking to the local coroner. Apparently the bodies had been drained – not simply of blood, or so I gathered, but of all moisture. He said it was if the very essence of them had been sucked dry." 

They all looked at each other. "I don't believe in coincidences," Athos declared, after a pause. "It has to be related. Grimaud is behind it, you mark my words."

"But how do we find them?" Porthos sighed. It was frustrating to think the men they were hunting might have already passed through the town, but there was nothing Aramis and d'Artagnan could have done - they weren't expecting them and even if they'd seen them they'd have had no reason to approach.

"They'll be wanting to get their prize out of the country as quickly as possible," Athos predicted. "The government's getting hotter on the theft of antiquities, they'll need to get it out of reach. They've got two options the way I see it, by sea or by air. Sea would be easiest, but a lot slower."

"Won't customs stop them?" Aramis asked. "I mean, from what you describe it's going to need a pretty hefty shipping crate."

Athos looked thoughtfully at Porthos. "How were you going to get it out?" he asked. "You came into this looking for something the size of a sarcophagus, you must have had a plan for getting it abroad?"

Porthos nodded immediately. "Stick it in a pine box, fake the paperwork and ship it as the mortal remains of your dearly beloved grandmother that you're taking home for burial," he said. "You'd be amazed how few customs officials want to look inside a coffin."

"Would that work?" d’Artagnan asked sceptically. Porthos gave him a level look.

"Has up to now."

“That’s what they’ll do,” Athos said, with a slowly building certainty. “And it means they can fly it out rather than going by sea, so they’ll head for Cairo rather than Alexandria. Aramis, have you got the map, the medium scale one?”

Aramis duly produced it, and they pored over the network of roads.

“I’d put money on them going this way,” Athos mused, tracing a finger along a thin line snaking through the desert. The main road to Siwa ran north-south from the coast, but there was a lesser used route that went east-west through the desert directly to Cairo. It was a rough road to travel, but there were a couple of oases along the way and if you braved it, it cut off a detour of several hundred miles.

“That still doesn’t help us,” Porthos argued, having to raise his voice above the unexpected noise of a small aircraft circling overhead, apparently coming in to land somewhere to the north of them. “We’ll never overtake them, they must be almost a day ahead of us by now.”

Athos was staring up at the aeroplane thoughtfully. “That assumes we’re following them on the ground,” he murmured. “Where’s that setting down?” he asked Aramis. “Is there an airfield here?”

“Not that I know of,” Aramis said, shaking his head and squinting into the bright sky after the plane. “I’d say that’s headed for the club.”

“What club?”

“Oh, there’s a sort of country club almost, on the edge of the oasis. I think it started life as a hotel, but it was taken over as an army base during the war, and it seems to have hung on as a haunt of retired army majors and the like,” Aramis told him. “Not that popular with the locals, at any rate.”

“We dropped into the bar for a drink last night,” d’Artagnan explained. 

“Alright for some,” Porthos snorted, thinking of his uncomfortable evening on camel-back, but then he broke off in surprise because Athos had jumped to his feet and was hurrying off in the direction the plane had taken.

Exchanging bemused glances, they followed him through the narrow streets until the buildings shortly fell away behind them and a startlingly green sweep of grass lay before them over a low wooden boundary fence. They could see the plane some distance away not far from a white stuccoed building that was apparently the clubhouse. 

“Wonder how much water they’re diverting from the local crops to keep their lawn in good nick,” Porthos muttered. 

“Forget the grass,” said Athos. “There’s our solution, look. You want to catch up with Grimaud? That’s the only way we’re going to manage it.”

The others all stared at the little two-seater biplane with varying levels of surprise. It was clearly a relic of the war that had been pressed into personal use, and it looked flimsy even from a distance. 

“I don’t see how that’s going to help,” Porthos objected. “Even if you could convince the pilot to give us a lift, he could only take one of us.”

"That depends on who's flying it," said Athos cryptically. He climbed over the fence and strode off towards the plane, leaving Porthos to look to Aramis for bemused clarification. 

"What’s he mean by that? Can Athos fly then?"

Aramis nodded. "He was a pilot in the RFC during the war."

"He hardly looks old enough."

Aramis smiled thinly. "Lied about his date of birth to enlist. Parents were both dead by that point, so there was no one to object, and they were so desperate for new pilots nobody ever really bothered checking up." Aramis hesitated. "His brother had been a pilot too, you see. He'd gone missing – word had it he'd been shot down over Lorraine. I think Athos joined up with some wild hope of finding him, maybe as a prisoner of war."

"He never did?"

Aramis shook his head. "There was never any sign. Do you know, they used to estimate new pilots' life expectancies in hours, rather than days? I don't think anyone expected Athos to last a week. Him included. But somehow, he kept on coming back."

Porthos looked curiously at him. "How do you know all this?"

This time, Aramis' smile was more amused. "I was his gunner."

"Oh. Well, maybe it had better be you that goes with him then," Porthos offered, but Aramis shook his head.

"No way. When the war ended I promised myself I was never setting foot in one of those things again. Particularly not one flown by Athos."

"Isn't he any good then?" Porthos wondered, but Aramis laughed.

"Oh, he's good. The best, even. Just a little - well, he liked to say daring, but I think my word would have been reckless." 

Porthos walked down to where Athos was inspecting the aeroplane under the watchful eye of a couple of nearby stewards.

"So you’ve flown one of these then?" Porthos asked.

Athos nodded. "One like it, anyway."

"That's not a yes." Porthos frowned suspiciously. Up close, the aircraft looked worryingly lightweight, its wings vibrating in the slight breeze.

"Once you're up there they're all pretty much the same," Athos said vaguely, walking around to the far side, out of sight of the stewards. "But if you're too scared, I'll take Aramis."

Declining to rise to the bait, Porthos folded his arms. "Aramis refuses to ever get in a plane with you again," he announced. He wasn't sure how Athos would take this piece of information, but to his surprise Athos grinned.

"D'Artagnan then," was all he said.

Porthos snorted. "He'll be no good to you with that arm."

"Well, then I guess I'll have just to go on my own." Athos held his gaze calmly and with a hint of amusement. Porthos huffed.

"Look, I'm sure you can fly the damn thing all very well, just - promise me you can land it?"

Athos nodded. "I wouldn't take her up if I didn't think I could," he said quietly. "So are you with me?"

Porthos sighed. "Looks like it."

"Good," said Athos, and realised with slight surprise that he meant it. He laid a hand on Porthos' arm. "Come on. I've got a feeling if we're going to get away with borrowing this thing, we're going to need your skills as a silver-tongued conman."

\--


	15. Chapter 15

They marched in as a body, Porthos in front, calling loudly for the manager in self-assured tones several notches further up the social scale than normal. Athos followed a few steps behind, trying to look suitably officious and wishing he’d had time to change into something less crumpled – but time was of the essence, and even a minute gained might count in their favour. 

Aramis and d’Artagnan brought up the rear, silent and watchful as if waiting on orders. Aramis held himself ramrod straight with a military precision, but it was d’Artagnan who drew the most curious glances. They’d taken off his sling and loosened the bandages to reveal the bloodstained dressings below, giving the impression of a much fresher wound than it was.

The manager, a small Egyptian man dressed immaculately in Western clothes hurried out of a rear office at the unexpected commotion in his foyer. “Gentlemen. Can I help you? No problem, I hope?” Looking down his nose at their dishevelled appearance and clearly preparing to repel boarders.

“Who owns that ‘plane out there?” Porthos barked. The manager, realising with visible relief that whatever was going on it didn’t involve his establishment, couldn’t prevent his eyes flicking to a man standing in the doorway of the public bar, holding a whisky and soda.

“It’s mine,” the man admitted freely enough, and with a touch of pride. “Is there a problem?”

“And you are sir?” Porthos demanded, vigorously enough for the man to take a step backwards.

“Samuel Fellows. Fellows Exports?” he said hopefully, wilting a little when nobody gave a flicker of recognition. “Fruiterer,” he added. “I use the old bus out there to pop out to keep an eye on the orchards and so on. So much quicker than coming by road, saves me days every month. All registered and above board,” he added, a little plaintively.

“Oh no need to worry sir,” Porthos said briskly. “We’re not with the aviation authority. But I’m afraid we do need to commandeer her for a short while. Official business, you understand.”

“What?” Fellows looked alarmed. “You can’t do that!”

“I think you’ll find we can sir,” Porthos intoned sententiously. “You wouldn’t want to be interfering with the execution of the due process of the law now would you sir? This gentleman here - ” he waved a hand at Athos - “is working on behalf of the Egyptian Antiquities service, in pursuit of an armed and dangerous gang known to be plundering valuable artefacts.” 

Porthos then gestured grandly at d’Artagnan. “As you can see, the parties concerned have already used considerable force to prevent us apprehending them. We are hopeful of making an arrest, but require your aeroplane out there for a short time to bring this about.”

Fellows looked dubious. “Well this is all highly irregular. I presume you have some sort of proof of identity?” 

“We’re wasting time.” To Porthos’ surprise it was Athos who’d stepped forward. “Here, my papers. Air force, and details of secondment to the antiquities service. You’ll find them all in order.” He waved a couple of dog-eared sheets pulled from his jacket at them and quickly put them away again. “If you want clarification – are you on the telephone here? Excellent. I suggest you speak to my superior in the government. Name of Alaman. In the meantime, you will permit us to proceed.” Athos swept out again followed by the others, leaving the club staff and members in considerable confusion.

“What did you show them?” Aramis asked curiously, trotting to catch up.

“My authorisation to dig in Alexandria and my pilot’s license,” Athos said with a slight smile. “All impressive and official looking enough from a distance.”

“Won’t take ‘em long to find out your chap doesn’t exist though,” Porthos said dolefully. “We’d better get a move on.”

“Oh, he exists,” Athos said. “I thought if I gave them a real name it would take them longer wasting time tracking him down. He’s the father of one of my research students.”

“Won’t he be rather surprised to hear you’re making up orders on his behalf?” d’Artagnan asked, as they reached the plane. 

Athos looked amused. “Very, I should imagine. Given that he runs the library service.”

Porthos gave a shout of laughter, and clapped Athos on the back. “Have you ever considered a career change? That was pretty impressive back there. You’d make a terrific swindler.”

Athos snorted. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Right, let’s get this show moving.” 

While Porthos and d’Artagnan explained firmly to the increasingly anxious stewards that they were permitted to take the plane, Athos and Aramis quickly got it ready for take-off.

“Will you be alright?” Aramis asked quietly, with ill-concealed concern. Athos slung an arm around his shoulders and gave him a lop-sided smile.

“If I’m not, it will be entirely my own fault.”

“Oh, very reassuring,” Aramis retorted but the others rejoined them then, and he fell silent, watching Athos and Porthos clamber inside. As they pulled back the steps a shout from the clubhouse drew their attention, as a crowd of angry looking men spilled out of the door.

“Looks like the jig’s up,” Porthos called forward. “How fast can you get this thing off the floor?”

“Let’s find out.” Athos nodded down to Aramis, who spun the propeller obligingly and leaped back as the engine caught. 

The plane lumbered slowly across the grass at a bare walking pace and Porthos turned to watch the pursuit with considerable alarm. Trusting that Athos knew what he was doing he kept his mouth shut, guessing that to distract him at this point would do more harm than good. 

Helpfully, the plane had already been turned and positioned ready for take-off again which had saved them a lot of fiddly manoeuvring, and they steadily picked up pace until the roar of the engine drowned out the angry shouts behind them.

Relieved that they seemed to be pulling ahead, Porthos turned back to face front again and froze. The boundary fence was now a matter of feet away and their wheels were still firmly on the ground. 

Athos showed no sign of slowing down and still the plane showed no signs of taking off, and Porthos suspected that to attempt a sharp turn at this stage would mean an instant wreck. He knew too, how easily these light-winged craft could go up in flames in the event of a crash, and had a sudden fervent appreciation for Aramis’ refusal to come instead.

The fence was practically under their wheels, and at the last moment Porthos screwed his eyes shut, bracing for the impact.

It never came. There was a bounce, a jolt, a protesting roar from the engine, and when Porthos cautiously opened his eyes again it was to discover they were finally airborne and the clubhouse was getting rapidly smaller beneath them. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Good thing you knew just how far it needed to take off,” he shouted forward, over the noise of the engine.

Athos turned briefly to look back at him. His expression was mostly hidden beneath goggles and flying cap, but Porthos had the distinct impression he was grinning.

“I didn’t,” Athos yelled back, somewhat disconcertingly. 

“What? How did you know we wouldn’t hit the fence?” Porthos demanded in horror.

“Fellows said he does this run all the time,” Athos called. “I figured he’d know how far he’d need to get off again.”

“And that was _it_?” Porthos felt faintly sick. “You risked everything on the assumption the plane was parked in the right place?”

“We didn’t have time to muck about moving it. Besides, it worked didn’t it? What are you worrying about?”

Porthos muttered something rude. 

\--

The watchers on the ground breathed a sigh of relief as the plane just scraped over the fence at a distance that would have alarmed Porthos even more had he realised how close it had actually been. The machine performed a slow circle as Athos got his bearings, then disappeared steadily into the distance, following the old road east.

Denied their chance to stop the aircraft thieves, the assembled crowd turned indignantly on Aramis and d’Artagnan.

“What is the meaning of this?” Fellows demanded angrily. “The government deny any knowledge of such a thing, who were those men? Who are you? And where have they taken my damn plane?”

“It’s in good hands,” Aramis said placatingly. “And we told the truth, they really are going after a couple of murdering thieves, it’s just if we’d waited for the proper authorities to act they’d have got away. As far as I know they’re heading for Cairo. Don’t worry, you’ll get it back.”

“And how am I supposed to get back myself, hmmn? I have a very important meeting to attend tomorrow.”

“About what, oranges?” D’Artagnan muttered. “Yeah, very important, compared to murder and theft.”

Fellows bubbled over with ire. “I want these men arrested!” he shouted, and to their consternation Aramis and d’Artagnan found themselves being bundled towards the clubhouse by several of the stewards.

A policeman was sent for, and the manager was faced with the unwelcome question of what to do with them in the first place. “Lock them in the cellar,” he decided finally. 

This was alarming. Aramis had been hoping they’d be able to sneak out when people’s backs were turned, but being locked up was no good at all. 

“You can’t treat us like this,” he objected. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Your friends stole my plane!” Fellows shrieked, looking like he was about to blow a fuse. Aramis belatedly wished that he’d claimed Athos and Porthos had fooled him as well and that he’d assumed they really did have the authority they claimed, but it was no good now. If only they’d had more time to plan this, and think through all eventualities. Being arrested really hadn’t featured in his plans for the day.

As they were shoved rudely towards the cellar door, d’Artagnan stumbled and the men hurrying him along suddenly found themselves holding him up. 

“What’s the matter with him?” asked the manager sharply.

“It’s the blood loss,” Aramis said, casting an anxious look at where d’Artagnan was now half-crumpled on the floor. He was ninety percent sure he was faking, but that last ten percent was a concern. “I told you, he’s injured. The men our friends are chasing shot him.”

“Who cares, get on with it, lock them up,” Fellows instructed callously, and Aramis had an unworthy moment of hoping that Athos did something unmentionable to his plane. 

“If he dies after being manhandled by your staff, it’ll be on your head,” Aramis snapped at the manager. “They may have re-opened the wound. I’m a doctor, let me see to him.”

After a certain amount of hurried debate, to Aramis’ relief they were pushed instead into an ante-room off the main lobby with a guard posted outside the door. He helped d’Artagnan to the couch, and sat down next to him. 

“Are you alright?” Aramis asked quietly. D’Artagnan turned his head to look up at him, his eyes alert and amused under the masking fall of his hair. Aramis relaxed, resisting the urge to slap him. “You had me worried for a minute there,” he murmured. 

“I had to be convincing,” d’Artagnan whispered back, looking pleased with himself. “I didn’t much fancy the sound of the cellar. How the devil do we get out of this?”

“Well they don’t have our names, that’s one thing,” Aramis said. “If we can make ourselves scarce before the police get here, we should be fine. No chance of getting past the chap on the door, but I wonder - ” he got up and went to examine the window. “Yes! It opens.” 

D’Artagnan joined him quickly, and together they eased the sash window up as quietly as possible. Fortunately they were on the ground floor, and it was a simple enough matter to slither over the sill and down to the path below. 

They slid the window shut again behind them, hoping to confuse matters a little longer, and tiptoed to the end of the wall. There was quite a gathering at the front of the clubhouse and they retreated hastily the way they’d come. 

“We’re going to have to make a break for the fence,” d’Artagnan said. “You game?”

Aramis nodded. “Let’s do it. Although the next time I volunteer for one of Athos’ mad schemes? Remind me to stay at home instead.”

They exchanged a look and a nod, and set off at a run. A few seconds after they cleared the protection of the building line they heard a shout and the sounds of pursuit, but they had a good head start, and managed to scramble over the wooden boundary fence before the rest were even halfway across the grass.

They hurried thankfully into the maze of side-streets, taking a circuitous route back to their lodgings only once they were sure they’d lost their pursuers. 

Hastily packing their things, they finally had the space to wonder how Athos and Porthos were faring.

“Do you think they’ll come back here?” d’Artagnan wondered, suddenly unsure if they should leave after all.

Aramis shook his head. “I doubt it. They’ll have to make Cairo to refuel in any case, I doubt that thing would have the capacity to do the trip twice, and Grimaud and Marcheaux must be over halfway there at least by now. I don’t see Athos flogging all the way back here on the off chance, to be honest. I say we head back to Alexandria.”

“Not Cairo?” D’Artagnan frowned. “What if they need help?”

“We’d get there too late to be of any earthly use,” Aramis reminded him. “At least if I go home Athos will know where to find me if he does need me, and most of his stuff’s there in any case.” He patted d’Artagnan on the shoulder and sighed. “I know you’re worried about them. I am too. But whatever they’re facing right now, I’m afraid they’re on their own.”

\--

Once safely in the air, Porthos had gradually lost some of his nerves and become captivated by the sight of Siwa spread out beneath them. The dark green of the palms and the shining expanse of the lake made a striking contrast with the surrounding browns and golds of the desert, and he appreciated how miraculous the oasis must have seemed to the first settlers there. 

As the town fell away behind them he wondered with interest if they would pass over the site of the tomb, but worked out that it was some considerable way to the south. He could make out the range of hills though, and couldn’t suppress a shudder as he pictured the secrets they were hiding. 

For a long time they flew in silence. Conversation was hard in any case above the noise of the engine, and Athos was concentrating on following the line of the road. He was confident he could plot a course direct for Cairo if needs be, but that meant running the risk of missing the truck along the way and so had decided the only thing for it was to fly the same route, with all its twists and turns.

Even so, they were travelling considerably faster than anyone on the ground, and the plane rapidly ate up the miles. Porthos, who’d been prepared to spend the journey in a state of nervous tension, soon became almost bored with the uneventful flight. There was nothing to see below but endless sand and the winding ribbon of unpaved road, nothing to see above but endless blue sky and the occasional faintest wisp of cloud suggesting distant unseen hills.

The only points of interest had been a pair of commercial trucks travelling out of Siwa and clearly not who they were looking for, and when they passed over an oasis. Athos had circled it carefully a couple of times, while they both peered down through the palms in search of any signs of life. 

“Bahariyah,” Athos called back as they flew east again, without result. 

“Bless you.”

“The oasis,” Athos explained, stifling a laugh. “We’re halfway, or thereabouts. Road turns north-east now, there’s one further oasis between here and Cairo. Just a watering hole, really. If they stop at all after this, it’ll be there, but I’m hoping we’ll still catch them on the road.”

“And then what?” Porthos asked, realising they’d been so intent on chasing after them they hadn’t really discussed what the plan was should they catch up. They certainly hadn’t had time to go back and collect anything useful. “Are you armed?”

There was a pause. “No.”

Porthos made a face. “Neither am I.”

“I guess we’ll just have to wing it.”

“If that’s supposed to be a joke, it’s not funny,” Porthos shouted back, but he was laughing despite himself.

Another ten minutes, and Porthos became aware of a dark moving dot some miles up ahead. He reached forward and tapped Athos on the shoulder, gesturing towards it, and Athos nodded.

They lost height, Athos taking them lower and lower until they could both clearly see that it was indeed the missing truck, travelling at some speed. There was something large shrouded in tarpaulin lying in the back, suggestive of the armour. This at least meant neither man was wearing it, which came as something of a relief. Neither Athos nor Porthos had been sure whether it was possible without the sarcophagus, but given their luck wouldn’t have been surprised to find it was.

Athos side-slipped, losing more height and taking them down until Porthos could see the uneven surface of the road rushing past below them. For a moment he thought Athos meant to land, but they were still going at a tremendous rate, and the truck was looming large just up ahead.

By this point the occupants of the truck were fully aware there was a plane right on their tail, but there wasn’t a lot they could do about it. To either side of the road was loose sand that would bog down the wheels if they attempted evasive manoeuvres, and out here in the desert there was no cover. 

If Athos had hoped the truck would stop, he was to be disappointed. If anything it sped up, in a futile but determined effort to get away. Athos was directly overhead now, and slipped to the side a little before deliberately bringing the plane back towards the truck in a sudden jink that made the truck swerve in alarm and Porthos exclaim in horror.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted, but Athos didn’t answer. It was plain enough in any case – he was trying to run them off the road. Twice more he swung out and cut back in, trying to drive them into the sand, but Grimaud, who they could see by now hunched tenaciously over the wheel, refused to be diverted. Perhaps he guessed that the pilot didn’t dare actually hit the truck, or it would be game over for the plane as well. 

After another fruitless attempt Athos finally flew higher, overtaking the truck and speeding on ahead. Porthos experienced a certain relief mingled with disappointment that they hadn’t succeeded – until Athos brought the plane about in a wide circle and started heading back towards the oncoming truck. He took them lower and lower until they were headed for the truck in something close to a nose-dive. Porthos gripped the seat and closed his eyes. All the evidence so far suggested Grimaud wasn’t going to be the first to concede in a game of chicken, and he briefly wished Marcheaux had been driving, given the man appeared to have a sense of self-preservation approaching Porthos’ own.

Something smacked hard into the side of the plane and his eyes flew open in surprise. Something else whanged off the cockpit a second later and looking down he finally realised what was going on. Marcheaux was leaning out of the passenger window and shooting at them.

“Keep your head down!” Athos yelled, at two more bullets hit the plane. Porthos hunkered down as low as he could, and winced as another bullet whistled past his ear to lodge in one of the struts. 

“Break off,” he shouted angrily. “You’ll get us both killed!”

A second later he felt the plane pull up again, and risking a glance over the side discovered they’d sailed over the top of the truck with inches to spare. With a practically inhuman resolve Grimaud hadn’t deviated from the road for a second.

Cautiously optimistic that they appeared to have survived unscathed, a second later there was a muted thump and an explosion of glass. 

“Fuck.” Athos veered away from Marcheaux’s side of the truck, almost sharply enough to stall them. He pulled back, gaining height and distance until they were safely out of range and the truck and the road had vanished into the general heat haze.

“Are you hurt?” Porthos asked worriedly. To his relief Athos shook his head.

“No, but he hit the instrument panel. We’re flying blind – no compass, no altimeter.”

“Could have been worse,” said Porthos with some relief. “At least we’re still in one piece. No thanks to you.”

“Hey, it was worth a try,” Athos called back, sounding more amused than offended. “Come on, how many people do you know would have held their course with a plane coming at them?”

“Just my luck, to get caught between two people with a death-wish,” Porthos muttered, although not loudly enough for Athos to hear him.

Just then the engine gave a cough, and stuttered a little before picking up again. Porthos sat up straight in alarm. “Is it supposed to do that?” The engine stuttered again, and he gripped the side of his seat. “Athos? Talk to me.”

Athos was flicking switches, and for a second the engine picked up again with its previous smooth roar. Porthos was just relaxing slightly when it coughed again, falling back into the alarming stutter.

“Damn it.”

“Athos?” 

Athos half-turned to look back at him. “Marcheaux holed the tank. We’ve been losing fuel. We should have had enough in the gravity tank to get us home, but - ” 

“But what?” Porthos demanded. “I don’t like but, what’s wrong?”

“Looks like we borrowed the plane before they’d finished refuelling,” Athos admitted with a calmness that made Porthos want to shake him until his teeth rattled. “It’s dry.”

“So what does that mean?” Porthos asked tightly, determined not to panic until Athos did. 

“Means we have to land, and quickly,” Athos said. “We’re pretty high, we can glide for a bit if it comes to it, but I’d prefer to set her down before we’re running on nothing but fumes.”

“Okay. So – let’s go down,” Porthos said, not seeing the problem.

“We can’t land here,” Athos pointed out. “The sand’s too soft. The wheels’d catch, and we’d cartwheel. The fuselage is likely soaked in petrol right now so we’d probably go up like a roman candle.”

“Don’t suppose this thing comes with a parachute?” 

Athos smiled. “Unfortunately not. Looks like you’re stuck with me to the end.”

They flew on, getting gradually lower and lower as Athos tried to find his way back to the road. It was their best bet for landing safely, but in his efforts to get out of firing range he’d lost track of how far they’d come, and with no landmarks it was effectively hidden by the sand dunes until you were right on it.

The engine gave a terminal sounding splutter and for a second cut out entirely. It caught again a moment later, but Athos knew they’d run out of time.

“I’m going to have to risk it,” he called back. “There’s a patch down there looks pretty level. If it’s firm enough, we should make it okay.”

“And if it’s soft?”

Athos pursed his lips. “You a religious man, Porthos?”

“Not especially.”

“Round about now would be a good time to find something to believe in.”

They fell silent, as Athos lined up as best he could before the stretch of ground he’d chosen and prepared to land. The plane was starting to feel heavy and unresponsive, and Athos prayed he hadn’t left it too late. He knew he’d only get one shot, there was nothing left in either tank to take them up again for a second run.

In the seat behind, Porthos decided if he was about to die he didn’t want to know about it and screwed his eyes shut again, bracing himself for impact. As the plane dropped he felt queasily like he’d left his stomach somewhere in the sky, and tried to concentrate on what Aramis had told him about Athos’ uncanny ability to somehow stay alive against the odds. 

Down – and down – then an unexpected thump from below that jolted Porthos’ teeth together, a feeling of weightlessness as they temporarily parted company with the ground again, then a heavier jarring rattle as they taxied forwards over the rough gravelly surface.

Finally they juddered to a stop and Athos hastily switched everything off, before sagging in his seat like his strings had been cut.

Porthos cautiously opened his eyes and was faintly surprised to discover they were in one piece.

Athos pulled off his flying hat and goggles and unclipped his harness, twisting round in his seat to give Porthos a rather unsteady smile.

“Piece of cake.”

Porthos shook his head disbelievingly, finding himself quite unable to form a coherent sentence. Athos scrambled out of the cockpit and climbed down. After a moment, once he was convinced his legs would hold him up, Porthos found the strength to follow.

To have solid ground under his feet once more came as a huge relief, and Porthos quickly recovered his equilibrium. 

“It worked,” he said happily.

“What did?” Athos looked briefly confused, and Porthos grinned at him.

“You told me to find something to believe in.”

“Oh.” Athos nodded vaguely. “What did you pick?”

Porthos’ grin widened, and he patted Athos on the shoulder. 

“You.”

Athos gave him an embarrassed smile. “Don’t thank me too soon. This plane isn’t going anywhere, and I have no idea how far off the road we are.”

Porthos took in what he was saying and looked around soberly. The sand stretched away in every direction, unbroken by landmarks of any kind. In the air, with the wind in his face and shaded by the aeroplane’s upper wings it had been pleasantly cool, but down here the sun was already bakingly hot.

“It can’t be that far, right?” he said hopefully. “We were heading back that way.”

Athos nodded cautiously. “It twists around a little. Let’s face it, it could lie on the other side of that sand dune and we wouldn’t know it. Also - ” he broke off uncertainly, and Porthos looked suspicious.

“What?”

“It’s just possible we flew over it without noticing,” Athos admitted. 

“Meaning?”

“If we didn’t, then heading north we should hit the road sooner or later. If we did – then there’s nothing between us and the coast but hundreds of miles of sand. In this heat, without water – we’d be dead inside two days. Three at most.”

Porthos digested this, and sighed. “What do you suggest?”

“Ordinarily, I would say stay with the plane and wait for rescue,” Athos mused. “Except no one knows where the hell we are, or even that we need rescuing. By the time Aramis realised anything had gone wrong we’d already be dead. And even if he did, it would mean searching the whole desert for us. An impossible task.”

“So we walk. Okay.”

Athos nodded. “I don’t think we have a choice. And – I was looking out for the road, I wanted to land on it. So I’m ninety percent sure we didn’t cross it accidentally.”

“Only ninety?”

“I was a bit preoccupied trying not to crash,” Athos admitted with a slightly embarrassed smile. “And in some places the sand’s blown over the road. So there is a risk.”

“Bigger risk if we go south though?” Porthos checked, and Athos nodded. 

“North it is then.” 

“We should wait for nightfall,” Athos advised. “It’ll be cooler walking after dark.”

“And every minute we waste, Grimaud gets further away,” Porthos argued. “Come on, it can’t be more than an hour to the road, right? We saw that couple of produce trucks way back, they’ll reach here eventually, we can pick up a lift. Otherwise we’ll have to walk all the way to Cairo and I don’t much fancy that.” 

Looking dubious, Athos nevertheless let himself be persuaded and they set out.

\--


	16. Chapter 16

The going was difficult from the start. Initially the surface where they'd landed was a stretch of gravel and pebbles that slipped awkwardly away underfoot, but this soon gave way to soft sand that they sank into up to their ankles. Progress was hard won and felt more like wading than walking, their thigh muscles aching after barely a quarter of a mile.

There’d been no water in the plane and they were soon feeling the effects of the scorching heat. The sun was a touch past midday, and they were thankful that Porthos had still had his pocket compass because all directions looked the same. They could at least be sure they weren’t walking in circles.

Athos felt in his own pockets in the vain hope of finding a dried date or a boiled sweet, anything that would stop his mouth feeling so gluey. He found instead the tin of Vaseline and offered it to Porthos, who gave him a breathless grin.

“I’m flattered, but I’m not sure I’ve got the strength in this heat.”

Athos snorted. “For your lips,” he clarified, guessing Porthos knew that perfectly well. “It’ll stop them cracking.”

“If you say so.” Porthos winked at him. “Promise me one thing though?”

“What?”

“You never had your fingers back in here the other night?”

Athos spluttered and nearly tripped up a sand-dune laughing. “That’s revolting.” He caught Porthos’ eye and smiled, grateful for his breaking of the increasingly oppressive mood. “I promise it’s quite hygienic.”

They struggled on for hour after hour through the barren landscape, their initial assumption that the road couldn't be far slowly turning into a stomach-sinking suspicion that they'd somehow missed it after all and were going the wrong way. Neither of them dared say it out loud, praying instead that their first instinct had been the right one, and that the road would lie just over the next sand dune.

As their strength ebbed, their progress slowed. Athos was stumbling frequently now, his feet dragging in the sand as he forced himself onwards. His eyes were puffy from the glare, and his tongue felt dry and unpleasantly swollen in his mouth. 

Silently struggling up yet another dune Athos blamed himself harshly for their predicament. He'd been so insistent on taking the plane to catch Grimaud that he hadn't checked the fuel levels, or taken a moment to bring some food and water on board. And on top of it all it had been his reckless attempt to drive the truck off the road that had resulted in them having to land out here at all. He should simply have flown ahead to Cairo and arranged to have the thieves apprehended upon their arrival. 

Trudging heavily along at his side, Porthos was similarly wracked with self-recrimination. It had quickly become obvious that Athos had been right, that they should have waited until nightfall to attempt this trip. They hadn't had anything to eat or drink since their interrupted breakfast, and without water he didn't see them lasting much longer out here. Athos' estimate of two or three days' survival might have been technically correct, but he knew that fairly soon they would become too weak to walk any further, and then it would all be over.

"I can't believe we've not hit the road yet." Porthos broke the silence as they crested yet another dune, only to find nothing but a sea of identical waves of sand stretching out before them. "Was it really that far off?"

"We may not have come nearly as far as it feels," Athos pointed out, taking the opportunity to sit down for a much-needed rest. Porthos shook his head in tired protest. 

"We can't stop here. We have to keep going."

"I just need a minute." Athos let his head fall weakly forward onto his knees, his breathing laboured. 

Neither of their wristwatches had survived the underground river, so they had no idea how long they'd been walking for. The sun was lower in the sky now, but it still felt as hot as a furnace and there'd been no shelter along the way that offered so much as a scrap of shade. 

Porthos took out his small compass to check their bearing but his tired and shaking fingers fumbled it and the small metal disc dropped neatly into the sand and slid from view.

"Christ!" Porthos delved hastily after it, but his hand closed on nothing but sand.

"What's wrong?" Athos lifted his head wearily as Porthos dropped to his knees and began frantically sifting through the sand.

"I dropped the compass," Porthos admitted, feeling panicky. "I can't find it." 

Athos crawled over and helped him search, but somehow it evaded all their efforts. Athos eventually sat back and sighed. 

"It's gone."

"It can't have." Porthos was still digging for it frantically, and Athos laid a hand on his arm, stilling his urgent movements. 

"Save your strength. Face it, we'll never find it in all this lot."

Porthos sagged, sitting down beside him in abject misery. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.

Athos shook his head. "It was an accident. These things happen."

"I meant for everything. You were right, I should never have insisted we set off in the middle of the day."

Athos shrugged tiredly. "I thought like you, that the road wouldn't be this far off." 

"Do you think - we're going the right way?" Porthos said hesitantly, finally voicing the unthinkable. 

"We have to be." Athos took a shuddering breath, and hauled himself to his feet. "Because I will admit, I don't have the strength any more to walk back even as far as we've come, let alone set off in the other direction."

Porthos nodded heavily, and accepted Athos' hand to pull himself up. "Sorry about the compass," he muttered. 

"As long as we keep the sun on our left, we should be okay," Athos said. "The road should curve right across in front of us at some point, it's not like we can miss it." As long as they hadn't already, he thought silently. 

They set off again wearily. The prolonged exposure to the searing heat and the increasing dehydration was making them both dizzy and light-headed, and they were both stumbling now, helping each other along each time one of them lost his footing. 

All too soon it became apparent that Athos was in no state to go much further. He could barely see, his vision blurring alarmingly and his eyes inflamed and sore. His legs felt like jelly, and Porthos was having to stop him from falling practically every other step.

The sun was still uncomfortably hot, but it was lower in the sky now and this had at least had one effect - to throw a sliver of shade down the back of each dune. The sand itself was too hot to lie on, but just as they were on the verge of giving up entirely Porthos spotted a harder ridge amongst the gentle curves of the sand dunes and realised it was an outcrop of rock.

Steering the by now almost unresponsive Athos in that direction, he was gratified to find he was right: a low gulley with walls of sandstone snaked a short distance through the sand, and was facing just the right way to be filled with shadow.

He lowered Athos thankfully into the relative coolness, and sank down next to him with a groan of relief. The temperature was still baking, but being out of the direct sun felt like heaven. Porthos settled back against the rock, wincing as every muscle in his body protested the unaccustomed exertion of the preceding hours.

Athos lay motionless next to him, his eyes closed and breathing shallow. Porthos studied him for a while, noticing with concern that there was a smear of dried blood across his cheek. His brain was sluggish in the heat, but Porthos finally worked out that it must have been from flying glass when Marcheaux's bullet had hit the instrument panel. 

Athos had been mostly protected by his flying goggles and also to some extent by his beard, but Porthos realised slivers of glass must have cut into the skin where it was exposed. Athos hadn't complained - he wondered if he'd even noticed, given everything else that had happened. 

Porthos reached out and brushed Athos' cheek gently with his fingertips, checking that no glass had been left embedded there. Athos didn't stir at his touch, and Porthos realised with a spike of unease that Athos was closer to unconscious than asleep.

There was nothing he could do. Rest was the best thing for both of them right now, and to wait for the sun to set. After dark it would be cooler - cold, even, which would bring its own problems, but anything would be better than this infernal heat.

Determined to keep a vigil in case Athos took a turn for the worse, or against whatever creatures of the desert - jackals, vultures - might sense a vulnerable meal - Porthos nevertheless sank into a deep sleep of his own within minutes.

\--

When Porthos woke, it was almost dark. There was a lingering glow in the west, but the sun had slipped beyond the line of the dunes and the stars were coming out overhead.

He sat up, feeling groggy and almost hungover. His head was pounding and his throat was parched and he felt distinctly sick. It seemed rather unfair, when he hadn't had the fun of the drinking part to begin with. 

Remembering Athos, he guiltily checked that all was well and was thankful to find the man still breathing. 

"Athos. Athos, wake up." He shook him gently by the shoulder, relieved when Athos stirred and grunted. "Come on. Time to go."

Athos forced his eyes open, squinting up at Porthos. He felt disorientated and weak, with a raging thirst that was now almost unbearable.

"Come on," Porthos coaxed. "Let's be having you. We need to crack on, make the most of the cooler hours."

"I can't." Athos tried to sit up and failed, curling in on himself miserably. 

"Course you can. Big strong lad like you?" Porthos said, forcing a cheerfulness that he didn't feel.

"I can't." It was barely a breath. "I can't do it. You'll just have to leave me."

"You what?" Porthos stared at him. 

"I don't have the strength," Athos said hoarsely, swallowing around a throat that felt like sandpaper. "I'm sorry. If you can keep going, then you should. I'll only slow you down. Save yourself."

"I'm not leaving you," said Porthos stubbornly. 

"Then come back for me." Athos' eyes had fluttered closed again.

Porthos briefly considered this, then dismissed it just as quickly. "I'd never be able to find you again. You'd be dead before I got back," he said, suspecting Athos knew this perfectly well. It annoyed him suddenly, that after everything they'd been through Athos was prepared to give in like this.

"Damn you, get up," he shouted suddenly, shoving Athos hard on the hip. "What am I supposed to tell your friends, huh? 'Where's Athos? Oh, him? Nah, I left him behind in the desert to die.' How well d'you think that's going to go down?" 

Porthos got to his feet and glared at Athos, who was by now at least looking a little more focussed, if startled by Porthos' tirade. "Come on. Get up."

"I can't - "

"Course you bloody can. Put your back into it. Come on, on your feet. I am not leaving you behind Athos, if I have to bloody well carry you out of here." He thrust his hand down towards Athos and waggled his fingers irritably. 

After a second Athos placed his hand tentatively into Porthos', and was heaved upright. He swayed alarmingly, but to Porthos' relief managed to keep his feet. Porthos guided one of Athos' arms around his neck and put his own round Athos' waist. 

"That's it," he said more gently. "We can do this. I've got you." 

Athos nodded obediently, his head swaying heavily as if punch-drunk. Porthos lead them out of the gully and then realised he had a problem. Without the compass, now that the sun had set he had no idea which way to go. Walking off course to hole up in the shade, they'd got all turned around, and he had a moment of fear at the thought he might be about to lead them both back the way they'd come.

Trusting that the faint lingering glow in one quarter marked the setting sun, he started walking.

The going was still hard, but the coolness of the night and the determination not to let Athos down gave him a new lease of life, and for some time they stumbled onwards with single-minded purpose.

As the last vestiges of the sunset faded away, Porthos stopped more and more frequently, afraid he was leading them in circles. 

"Wha's wrong?" Athos mumbled, as he was jerked to a stop yet again as Porthos looked frantically for any kind of landmark to take a bearing from.

"I'm not sure which way's right," Porthos admitted. He'd wanted to give Athos the impression everything was under control, but he was getting desperate for a second opinion. "What do you think?"

Athos gazed vacantly left and right with unseeing eyes, and Porthos sighed.

"Moon," Athos slurred. 

"Eh?"

"Moon'll come up in th'east." This seemed to exhaust Athos' brief period of lucidity and he sank into silence again, his head lolling against Porthos' shoulder.

Porthos looked around, gazing up into the night sky and wishing he knew how to navigate by the stars. The moon might well come up in the east, but there was no sign of it yet. He thought back to the previous night and reckoned it must be at least an hour or two away yet. 

They could wait for it, but he suspected that getting Athos moving again if he let him fall asleep might be an impossible task. It was best to keep going and hope they were vaguely right. Having made his decision, he renewed his grip on Athos' waist, and set off once more.

\--

One foot in front of the other. And again. And again. Mechanical, stubborn bloody-mindedness the only thing keeping him going. 

Athos was at least still somehow managing to bear most of his own weight, which was a blessing. Despite his words Porthos suspected he wouldn't have had the strength to carry Athos this far. Athos hadn't uttered a word for what felt like hours, and Porthos wondered if it was possible to walk and sleep at the same time. He was certainly navigating for both of them.

Gradually, he became aware that the darkened dunes were taking on a more silvery sheen, and his tired brain finally realised this was because the moon had risen at last – behind him. He swung round, prompting a soft noise of protest from Athos, jerked out of his stupor.

The moon was a few days past full, bright and baleful and ninety degrees too far over for Porthos' comfort. They'd been heading almost directly west rather than north. Still, it could have been a lot worse. He corrected their course and set off again, feet blistered and legs numb, but resolute to the last. 

\--

Porthos was nearing the end of his strength. He’d almost given up hope of ever finding the road, and for some time had simply been hoping that they’d find another outcrop of rock, where they’d stand a chance of some shade once the sun came up again. He knew with an exhausted certainty that another day of full exposure to the sun would be the end of both of them.

Staggering to the crest of yet another ridge, his dragging feet caught in the sand and he fell to his knees, taking Athos with him. The other side was steeper, and with nothing to hold on to they found themselves rolling down the slope in helpless freefalll, fetching up at the bottom in a tangle of limbs, spitting out sand.

“Well that’s one way of getting down them quicker,” Porthos remarked, sitting up and scrubbing sand out of his hair. “You alright?”

Athos nodded, winded and bruised, but stoical. Porthos gathered his strength, preparing to haul both of them back to their feet and looking around to regain his bearings.

In the distance, he thought he saw a brief twinkle of light, and froze. Staring intently in the same direction he was rewarded a moment later by another flash, and then a second gleam a little way off from the first.

“Athos,” he called in a low, urgent voice. “Am I seeing things, or is there a light over there?”

Forcing himself to pay attention, Athos looked where he was pointing, trying to blink the darkened desert into focus. A second later he saw it.

“You’re right.” 

“We’re saved!” Porthos scrambled to his feet with a sudden burst of renewed hope, but Athos caught his sleeve. 

“Might be Grimaud,” he warned, wishing his head didn’t feel like it was full of sand, hot and heavy and slow.

Porthos stared at him, then back at the lights still visible in the middle-distance. “He’ll be long gone by now, surely?” he muttered, but Athos was right, it wouldn’t pay to be careless. 

He helped Athos back to his feet, and together they stumbled towards the lights. After a minute or so Porthos realised the reason they twinkled in and out of view was because there were palm trees in front of them, and they had in fact reached the edge of a small oasis.

“Athos. It’s a water hole. We’ve made it, this must be the road,” Porthos urged quietly, gripping the back of Athos’ shirt in excitement. Athos could do no more than nod, but somehow they managed to pick up speed, staggering thankfully under the first few trees and dropping to the ground at the edge of the lapping water.

Athos more than half-fell forward onto his face, cupping the water in his hand and gulping it down frantically. When Porthos had slaked his own initial desperate thirst Athos was still drinking, and he crawled over to him, pulling him gently away.

“Easy,” he warned. “Not too much. You’ll be sick.” 

Athos slumped against him weakly, sprawled on the sand with his head in Porthos’ lap, and Porthos stroked his hair unthinkingly. “We made it,” he breathed, half-laughing with astonished relief. “We made it Athos.” 

For a while they stayed just as they were, regaining a little strength and sipping a little more water. It was flat-tasting and gritty but right now it was more welcome than the finest champagne. 

Porthos dipped his handkerchief into the pool and gently cleaned Athos’ face, wiping away the dirt and sweat and faint bloody scratches. The process seemed to revive him somewhat, and Athos finally managed to sit up on his own, giving Porthos an embarrassed smile.

“You okay?” Porthos murmured, and Athos nodded weakly.

“Thanks to you.”

Porthos flashed him a grin. “You be alright here for a sec, if I go and see what’s going on with those lights?” 

Athos nodded again, and Porthos hauled himself to his feet. 

“Be careful,” Athos whispered, and he grinned. 

“Sit tight. I won’t be long.” Porthos crept off between the trees, working his way closer to the light that he now saw came from a couple of lanterns hanging in the trees and a campfire that had burned down to a warm glow. 

A darker mass against the night resolved itself into the shape of an enormous truck with another one behind it, and Porthos relaxed. These were almost certainly the two trucks they’d seen moving out of Siwa the previous morning, and hopefully had nothing to do with Grimaud.

He walked boldly into the camp and discovered the two drivers asleep beneath a canopy slung between two of the palms.

Porthos briefly considered going back for Athos immediately, but decided it wouldn’t hurt to confirm a friendly reception first, and went to wake them.

The two drivers were considerably surprised at finding a man had emerged from the desert on foot, and bombarded Porthos with excitable questions that his Arabic could only just about keep up with. He explained that he and a friend had broken down in the desert and been walking for hours, and were in dire need of rescue. 

Having secured an immediate offer of help, Porthos hurriedly made his way back to Athos. He was seized with the unreasonable fear that Athos would somehow have vanished in the few minutes he’d been gone, but was relieved to find him still sitting where he’d left him.

Athos looked up as he approached, equally relieved at his return. “What’s happening?” he asked. “I heard voices.”

Porthos nodded. “Couple of lorry drivers, on their way to Cairo. They’ve promised us a lift. Come on, up you come.” He reached down and helped Athos to his feet. “I told them we’d broken down,” he explained. “Didn’t tell ‘em we were in a plane. I don’t think they’re anything to do with Grimaud and Marcheaux but you can never be too careful.”

The drivers gave Athos’ arrival a warm and solicitous welcome, and showing no irritation at being disturbed in the middle of the night quickly offered them food and blankets. Athos was too tired to do anything but collapse thankfully into sleep, but Porthos sat up and ate with them for a while, fielding inquisitive questions about what had happened to them. 

By the time he too turned in, settling down next to Athos who’d been fast asleep for some time, he was satisfied the two drivers knew nothing of Grimaud’s activities, and neither had they seen him and Marcheaux on the road. Porthos wondered if they’d lost their chance entirely now to stop them leaving the country with their prize. It would surely take them a certain amount of time to make shipping arrangements though, and if he and Athos could reach Cairo less than a day behind them...Porthos fell asleep still turning possibilities over in his mind.

\--

Athos woke the next morning bleary and disorientated, without the faintest idea where he was. He stared up at what he first took in confusion for a sail, until he worked out it was a thin woven blanket tied to a tree. Trees didn’t make much more sense, but he was grateful for the shade it cast over him, and finally struggled into a sitting position. 

A few feet away Porthos was sitting next to a camp fire with two men he didn’t recognise, drinking from tin mugs. Fragmented memories of the night before filtered back to him, and Athos realised they’d found the road after all. He’d been in such a state from exhaustion and dehydration that he’d been fairly sure he’d hallucinated the entire thing.

Porthos noticed he was awake and came across, bringing with him a bowl of sliced fruit and some mint tea. 

“Here. You should eat something.” Porthos looked tired, but sat down next to him with a cheerful smile and Athos took the proffered bowl and mug gratefully. 

“Thank you.” Athos hesitated. “And – thank you. For what you did. I’d never have made it if it wasn’t for you.”

Porthos shrugged, but smiled at him. “Hardly going to leave you behind, was I? Not after getting this far.”

Athos’ smile in return was almost questioning, as if he was trying to understand why Porthos should have gone to so much trouble to save him, but he said nothing. Impulsively, Porthos put an arm round him and gave him a quick hug.

“Eat your breakfast, they’re keen to get moving soon. With any luck we’ll be in Cairo before midday.” He moved off again to help the two drivers strike camp, leaving Athos staring after him thoughtfully.

\--

They were soon underway, the two trucks rattling apace down the desert road. Athos and Porthos had declined the offer of a seat in either of the stifling cabs, and instead were settled in the back of the lead truck on a nest of blankets amidst the crates of fruit and vegetables destined for Cairo. A canvas awning overhead kept off the sun, and the speed of the vehicle meant there was soon a welcome breeze.

Athos yawned and stretched out, prepared to snatch as much sleep as he could while somebody else was taking care of their progress for once. Closing his eyes he heard Porthos snort with muted laughter and looked up enquiringly. 

Porthos nodded at the crates stacked carefully next to them. Stencilled on the side was _Fellows Exports_. 

“You going to tell him where to find his plane?” Porthos smirked.

Athos shut his eyes again firmly. “Let’s just hope he’s insured.”

\--


	17. Chapter 17

After several hours of welcome if uncomfortable travel, they found themselves deposited in the commercial district of Cairo. Debating their next move, Porthos was in favour of heading straight for the airport.

“It’s too far to walk it,” Athos pointed out, not looking forward to there being any more extended exercise in his immediate future

“Taxi?”

“Have you got any money on you?” Athos asked “Because I haven’t.”

Porthos patted his pockets and looked alarmed. “No. Hell, what are we going to do?”

Athos looked round to get his bearings, then gestured for Porthos to follow him. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“I live here, remember?”

\--

Twenty minutes later Porthos followed Athos up an external staircase to a second floor apartment in an impressive building that looked as if it had been built as a hotel in the last century.

“You own this?”

“Rent it,” Athos explained. “I’ve a cottage back in England I use as a bolthole, but mostly I work out of Cairo. Been staying with Aramis recently of course.” He fished a key out from under a large terracotta pot, and Porthos snorted.

“Professionally speaking, your security’s terrible.”

Athos smirked at him. “Just be grateful, or we’d really be stuck.” He let them in, with the comforting sense of a familiar sanctuary gained. 

“I know time is of the essence, but I really need to wash and change,” Athos said apologetically. He looked Porthos over with a critical eye. “I’m not sure I’ve got anything that’ll fit you though.”

“Not a problem,” Porthos assured him. “I’ll settle for a wash and brush up.” He smiled. “It’ll be nice to feel vaguely human again.”

After a proper bath and chance to clean their teeth and neaten themselves up, they both felt a hundred percent better able to face whatever the day chose to throw at them next. Athos raided the money he kept squirrelled away for emergencies and they set out for the airport, pausing only to buy a bag of sweet rolls to eat on the way.

“What do we do now?” Porthos asked as they stood beneath a large billboard for Imperial Airways, watching the entrance to the terminal building. The bustle of smartly dressed international travellers and airport staff going about their business ebbed and flowed around them, nobody taking the slightest notice of their open scrutiny. “Assuming they’re here, how do we find them?”

“We could alert the authorities,” Athos mused, “but I’d rather keep that as a last resort. We’ll only get tied up in hours’ worth of questions, and it’ll probably be the time they need to get away. I’d prefer to figure out if they’re likely to still be around first.”

Examination of the departures board suggested there was an Air Union cargo flight to Paris scheduled for that afternoon, and enquiries at the desk revealed this was the first flight all week bound for France. Gambling on the fact that this would be Grimaud’s destination of choice, this gave them a renewed hope of catching their birds in the act. 

Slipping away from the busy concourse, they sneaked past a sign declaring ‘staff only’ and out into the freight loading warehouse.

“I didn’t think it was going to be this easy,” Porthos murmured in surprise as they edged past endless stacks of carefully labelled crates. “If I’d known it was this straightforward to get in here I’d have smuggled stuff out like this before. I can’t understand why we’ve not seen any security guards.” He frowned. “There should at least have been someone on the door.”

They turned a corner and stopped. At the end of the aisle a pair of feet could be seen sticking out from behind a pile of boxes. They exchanged a look, and made their way cautiously forward. It proved to be the emaciated body of a man in a security uniform, clearly quite dead.

“There’s your guard,” Athos murmured.

“That’s not natural,” Porthos said, making a face as he took in the man’s withered features.

“What did Aramis say about those bodies in Siwa?” Athos looked around cautiously, making sure they weren’t being observed. “Drained of their life essence, or something?”

“Grimaud,” Porthos said heavily. Athos nodded.

“Can’t be a coincidence.”

Moving more quietly now, they worked their way further into the warehouse. Finding the section labelled Air Union beneath a row of high-level windows on the far side, it didn’t take them long to locate a large crate whose shipping label bore a distinctively sombre cross printed clearly to one side. 

There was a crowbar lying on a stack of nearby pallets and they soon had the lid off, to find themselves staring down at the lid of a pine coffin.

“If we’re wrong - ” Athos let the thought hang in the air for a second, and Porthos took the crowbar from his hand impatiently.

“Then we’ll apologise to the deceased. Come on, there’s only one, it’s got to be this.” He shoved the end in under the lid and heaved. With a splintering of wood the coffin nails parted company with the cheap timber, and Athos only hesitated a second before helping Porthos to prise it up.

Inside, the gleam of gold seemed to catch and magnify the faint light from the dusty windowpanes overhead, and the whole space appeared to glow around them.

“I’d forgotten quite how beautiful it was,” Athos breathed. The armour, or sarcophagus, or whatever strange combination of the two it had been designed to be, lay before them undamaged and untarnished by its eventful journey from the tomb. 

The face mask was closed, and Athos shuddered at the sudden thought there might be someone inside. He stepped backwards instinctively and the impulse saved his life, as a split second later a bullet smacked into the wall of crates.

Letting the lid fall closed again, Athos and Porthos swung round in alarm to find Marcheaux covering them with a revolver.

“I am getting seriously fed up with everyone else being armed and not me,” Porthos growled, and before Marcheaux could squeeze off another shot had flung himself bodily at him, taking him by surprise and knocking him backwards. 

The gun skittered across the floor and disappeared between two packing crates. Athos made a dive for it, but the boxes were too heavy to move and the gun lay just out of reach of his stretching fingers. A movement in the corner of his eye made him turn just in time to duck out of the way as a golden fist swung viciously at his face. 

Caught off balance Athos fell back awkwardly against the crate, raising his hands defensively to fend off Grimaud's next attack. He deflected the second punch by an inch, only to find a gleaming blade snick out from the wristguard and swish past his face.

“Oh, it’s retractable?” he heard himself say, in a voice that was just a notch too highly pitched for his own dignity. “That must come in handy.”

The blade seemed to be temporarily stuck in the wooden crate and Athos took the opportunity to kick Grimaud sharply in the crotch and wriggle out from under him. He met Porthos coming to his aid, as Marcheaux painfully extricated himself from the stack of broken pallets where Porthos appeared to have thrown him.

“Kill them!” Grimaud rasped, and Marcheaux glared at him. 

“You kill them. I dropped my gun.”

Grimaud bared his teeth in a snarl that seemed aimed at Marcheaux as much as the others “Do I have to do everything myself?”

“Can’t get the staff eh?” Porthos grinned, edging closer to the boxes where he’d seen Athos trying to retrieve the gun.

“Stay where you are!” Grimaud slashed at him with the blade, and Porthos ducked back, swearing.

With Athos, Porthos and Grimaud all warily intent on one another, it was Marcheaux, with his innate sense of self-preservation, that first noticed something was off.

“What happened to the sun?” he asked, sounding surprised. 

Athos automatically turned to look up at the window; Porthos kept his eyes firmly on Grimaud, who similarly didn’t flinch but growled at Marcheaux, “it’s probably just a raincloud, good grief Georges could you pay attention for once in your miserable life, and find your gun?”

“Rain, in Cairo?” was Marcheaux's incredulous response. “It hasn’t rained in sodding months.”

Being the only one looking in the same direction, Athos was of the opinion that Marcheaux was right. It wasn’t simply overcast outside, but black as pitch, as if night had fallen. The only light now came from the swaying metal fittings high over their heads, with an additional eerie gleam issuing from the blade in Grimaud’s hand.

“Athos?” Porthos murmured his name, trying to draw his attention back to the current situation. He was increasingly worried that whatever Athos was staring at so fixedly meant there was now a threat behind him as well, but didn’t dare take his eyes off Grimaud.

“It’s gone dark,” Athos said blankly. He could think of no reason for the sudden onset of night. It was hours until dusk, and an eclipse seemed unlikely. The more he stared, the _thicker_ the blackness looked. There were no stars visible through it, no gleam of light from the fittings outside. No noise from outside either, which seemed odd. Surely if night had unexpectedly descended over Cairo, its people might be expected to be making more of a fuss. Which raised the nasty suspicion in Athos’ mind that the darkness – was only in here.

He saw it at the same time as Marcheaux, and they cried out at the same moment. 

“What the bloody hell’s the matter with you?” Grimaud finally cracked and looked up, stepping carefully out of Porthos’ range. Porthos turned too, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, and grabbed Athos’ arm in shock as he saw what Athos and Marcheaux had seen a second earlier. The blackness was oozing tangibly through the side of the warehouse, a wall of shifting, oily smoke that broke apart and reformed with unnatural purpose until the four of them were quite surrounded. 

"It's those things from the tunnel," Porthos said, his voice low with horror as the swirling darkness began to coalesce into discrete, long-taloned forms. "How the hell did they follow us here?" 

"It may not be us they followed," Athos pointed out, glancing at the crate holding the armour.

After the first moment of startled alarm Grimaud seemed almost triumphant and raised his golden blade commandingly, clearly expecting the circling elementals to do his bidding, or at least back off, as before. To his shock they ignored it, pressing in ever more tightly and he felt a sudden bright hot pain as an unseen claw ripped down the side of his face.

Marcheaux was similarly beset, and with blood dripping from a flurry of scratches turned to run. Grimaud reached out and seized his arm angrily.

"Stand and fight, you damn coward."

Marcheaux tried to shake him off angrily. "I'm no coward! I'll take on anyone you care to point me at! But you can't fight shadows, man!"

"But the gold - "

"Sod the gold, they can keep it!" Marcheaux wrenched his arm free and plunged away through the body of wraiths. They seemed to let him pass, and Athos wondered again if it was the armour they were protecting. So far, huddled in a corner up against some racking, Porthos and he had been relatively unmolested but there was no telling how long this state of affairs would continue.

Grimaud was surrounded now, attempting to drive the wraiths away with furious slashes of his blade, betraying no trace of the injury Porthos had inflicted on him in the tomb. The creatures seemed wary of the sword but they had the advantage of sheer numbers and it was becoming hard to see him through the mass of slinking, tearing shapes. 

The floor was by now slippery with blood, and Grimaud was getting visibly weaker. He hurled himself towards the crate in a last ditch attempt to reach the armour, sensing that if he could just get inside it, he would be protected from further harm. 

His proximity to the coffin seemed to enrage the creatures further, driving them into a clawing, hissing frenzy. With a final bellow of defeated frustration Grimaud too broke and ran, staggering away between the stacks of shipping crates until he was lost to sight, still hounded by the spectral cloud of teeth and claws.

Not all of them followed him, and Athos and Porthos stiffened in apprehension as the remaining wraiths circled slowly closer. Evidence suggested that if they made a run for it they would be allowed to leave, but having been left in possession of the prize they were both reluctant to abandon it.

"Nice kitty," Athos ventured, as the closest wraith slunk past him, hissing malevolently. There was a suggestion of golden eyes gleaming in the smoky darkness, and he yelped as a sharp pain speared into his calf. As blood oozed through the leg of his trousers Porthos stepped protectively in front of him, flapping at the assembled wraiths indignantly.

"Go away! Shoo! Leave us alone!" he ordered, feeling faintly ridiculous but saying the first thing that came into his head. To his considerable surprise the wraiths actually fell back, circling each other discontentedly but no longer attempting to approach.

Emboldened, Porthos took a step forwards. "Go away! Go on. Bugger off. Go and help your friends chase Grimaud," he added as an afterthought, and stared in amazement as the remaining forms gradually dissipated, becoming fainter and fainter until not a wisp was left.

"How the hell did you do that?" Athos asked, astonished. Porthos looked at him. 

"Honestly? I have no idea. There is no way that should have worked." 

"Perhaps they obey whoever's in possession of the armour?" Athos hazarded, but it seemed an unlikely theory, given that theoretically that had been Grimaud.

"Maybe they just liked my face?" Porthos suggested, and Athos laughed. 

"Maybe." He walked over to the crate containing the coffin, and ran his fingers over the wood. "Well, we've done it. Regardless of whether we ever manage to dig our way back into his tomb, the armour of Alexander the Great can take its rightful place in the Cairo museum."

"No." 

The quiet contradiction made Athos frown and he turned round to see what Porthos meant - and froze. Porthos had retrieved Marcheaux's gun from between the crates, and was pointing it at him.

"I'm sorry Athos," Porthos said, sounding genuinely regretful. "But I need that armour more than you do."

“So. It’s come to this at last, has it?” Athos gazed at him, his expression more sad than alarmed.

“Just – walk away,” Porthos pleaded heavily. “Turn around and walk out of here, say we got separated, say you never knew what happened. Don’t make me hurt you Athos. Please.”

Athos shook his head slowly, and instead of moving away took a step towards him. 

“Please!” Porthos’ voice was shaking almost as much as the hand holding the gun. “Athos please, just go. While you can.”

Another slight shake of the head, another step forwards. “You won’t hurt me.”

Porthos licked his lips, steadied the gun that was now just inches from Athos’ chest. “I will if I have to.”

“You could have left me to die in the desert.”

“What?”

Athos took another slow step forward, careful to make no sudden movements that might make Porthos jump, but now the muzzle of the gun was pressed against his shirt. 

“If you wanted to get rid of me,” Athos explained softly. “The easiest thing would have been to leave me to die out there. Nobody would have known. But you didn’t. You went to all that trouble to bring me safely out. And yet you expect me to believe that you’ll shoot me now, in cold blood?”

“You don’t know what I – Athos, please,” Porthos begged, his eyes full of agony, but Athos stood firm.

“If you want that armour, you’re going to have to kill me for it.” He sounded almost apologetic, and Porthos finally cracked, lowering the gun with a gasping breath that was close to a sob and tossing the gun away from him. It slid over the top of a crate and was lost to view.

Porthos sat down heavily on the lid of the box containing the armour, and hung his head. Athos sat cautiously next to him.

“What happened, Porthos?” he asked after a moment’s silence. “You once had such a promising career. You’re not a bad man. What made you throw it all away like this?”

For a while he thought Porthos wasn’t going to answer, but then he sighed and half turned to give Athos a look of tired shame. “I got into debt. I needed the money.”

“How?” Athos couldn’t for the life of him think how an aspiring archaeologist could get into the kind of debt that would necessitate the theft of thousands of pounds worth of antiquities. Drugs, he wondered? But Porthos had never given the appearance of being any kind of addict.

“Gambling,” Porthos admitted, hanging his head again and staring at the floor.

“Oh Porthos.”

“I know.” Porthos gave a deep sigh. “I couldn’t stop. It was like a compulsion – a sickness. And once I’d passed a certain point, it felt like the only option was to keep going, in the hope I’d win big. Win enough to pay back everything I owed.” He gave a derisive snort. “Of course, I never did.” 

Porthos straightened up, looked Athos in the eye with a certain defensiveness. “Eventually the house stopped my credit, demanded I pay it all back. I couldn’t, of course.” He gave Athos a wincing smile, remembering. “I was fairly sure I was headed for a kneecapping, or worse. But then – one day this man turned up. Made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“Richelieu,” Athos guessed, and Porthos flinched. 

“I never said that. Anyway. He offered to buy my debt. To pay off everything I owed, and give me the chance to pay him back instead by - ” Porthos hesitated. “Working for him.”

“You mean stealing for him,” Athos translated.

“Yeah.” Porthos nodded tiredly. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Of course you had a choice,” Athos retorted with an edge of irritation. “He was asking you to steal for him, break the law for him – why didn’t you go to the police? Being in debt’s not a crime. You still could.” Athos softened his tone. “Look, I’d support you – speak up for you? Why don’t we go to the police together?”

Porthos shook his head stubbornly. “You don’t understand. I can’t.”

“Why not?” Athos demanded impatiently. 

“Because he’s got my daughter.”

Athos stared at him, for the moment rendered speechless. He’d expected a lot of things, but not that. Porthos gave him a conflicted smile.

“Ellie. She’s only six,” he continued hoarsely. “I’ve barely seen her this last year.”

“What – how – ?” Athos struggled to get his head round this new development, wondering with a sudden cold shock whether on top of everything else Porthos was married.

“I came home one day and he’d taken her,” Porthos explained miserably. “As insurance against my continued good behaviour. Oh, she’s being well enough taken care of. She don’t really know she’s a prisoner. But there’s always that threat, yeah? That if I don’t behave, something could – happen to her.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I thought this would be it, you know? This thing’s got to be worth thousands.” He rapped his knuckles against the top of the crate they were perched on. “It has to be enough to pay off the rest of what I owe him. But you’re right. I won’t hurt you for it. I’ll just have to carry on as best I can.”

Athos stared at him. “You seriously think he’ll let her go?” he said eventually.

“I have to. He promised,” said Porthos wretchedly. “It’s all I’ve got left to hold onto.”

“But after all that he’s made you do – if he gives her up, lets you off the hook – he’s got nothing to prevent you going to the authorities,” Athos pointed out. 

“I gave my word,” Porthos said. “That I’d say nothing, if he just let us go.”

“Where’s her mother in all of this?” Athos asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer. Porthos shook his head.

“Not on the scene any more.” He gave Athos a sheepish smile. “We were never really together. I didn’t even know she was pregnant. Just turned up on the doorstep one day with this baby and said it was my turn.” He frowned. “Hadn’t even bothered to name the poor little mite.” 

Athos sighed. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“Yes!” Porthos looked stricken. “I wouldn’t lie about something like that.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a scrap of card that he passed to Athos. It proved to be a dog-eared sepia photograph of a little girl, much blurred and water damaged. Athos guessed Porthos must have had it on him when they were forced to chance the underground river.

“I named her after her mother,” said Porthos quietly, staring at the picture helplessly. “That’s another thing, you know? What if she turns up again and wants to see her? What am I going to tell her?”

Athos groaned, passing the photograph back and getting to his feet. “Alright. Fine.”

“Eh?” Porthos stood up as well, confused. 

“Take it. The armour. You’re right, if there’s even a chance – you have to try. Take it. Get her back.”

Porthos stared at him, incredulous and warily hopeful. “Athos – do you mean that?”

Athos nodded, and then took a startled step backwards as Porthos flung his arms around him. He hugged back with a rather self-conscious laugh.

“Look – we could still go to the police,” Athos suggested tentatively, but Porthos pulled back, his expression closing down. 

“I won’t risk her life. And they’d never believe me.”

“They’d believe _me_. Porthos, let me help you,” Athos begged, but Porthos shook his head.

“You can’t help me. No one can.” He gave Athos a sad smile. “I told you, didn’t I? Life in bondage. It’s my own fault. I guess this is one curse I brought on myself.”

\--


	18. Chapter 18

Three days later Porthos was shown into the ornate drawing room of Richelieu's mansion on the outskirts of Paris. He was clean and smartly dressed, his beard neatly shaven, with only a slightly pinched look around the eyes to hint at the stress and exhaustion he'd recently been under.

The golden armour had been delivered earlier that morning, and was displayed in splendour on a plinth in the middle of the room. Porthos walked around it in a slow circle. It had been the cause of an immense amount of trouble and the deaths of several men, and yet he couldn't help the sense of wonder he felt gazing down at its workmanship.

And what other properties might it conceal? The gauntlet alone had conferred unforseen healing powers on Grimaud. Marcheaux had seemed to imply that the suit, too, had uncanny abilities in addition to simply enhanced strength.

Not for the first time, Porthos debated the wisdom of letting such a thing into Richelieu's possession. But then, as far as he knew the man was unaware of the armour's more unlikely attributes. He coveted it simply because it existed.

"Porthos."

The smooth voice behind him made him jump; Porthos had not heard Richelieu enter.

"Afternoon." Porthos nodded respectfully. "I see it got here alright."

Richelieu inclined his head in the affirmative, his gaze sliding uninterestedly over Porthos to come to rest hungrily on the gleaming golden form. "And it is far in excess of anything I dared hope," he breathed. "You've done well."

"Thank you," Porthos said stiffly. Richelieu gave him a sideways glance.

"I hear it wasn't all plain sailing."

"I had help," Porthos admitted uncomfortably, wondering how much Richelieu knew and how much was just fishing. You could never quite tell how many spies the man had.

"Ah yes, Athos de la Fere," Richelieu purred. "I heard a rumour you'd teamed up. However did you convince him to let you walk off with it?"

"Fed him a sob story," Porthos declared. "The man's a gullible fool."

"I see." Richelieu, like Porthos before him, was now circling the plinth as if the armour exerted a fascination beyond its simple value. But its market value was why they were here, and Porthos could stay quiet no longer.

"So this has got to be worth enough, right? To pay off the rest of what I owe you?" he blurted, as Richelieu gave him a look of deep distaste.

"Oh." Richelieu let the sound tail off. "How vulgar. Probably, yes."

Porthos relaxed an inch. "So that's us done then? We're all square?"

"Oh no."

"What?" Porthos demanded dangerously, and a movement in the doorway drew his attention to the fact that two bodyguards had followed Richelieu into the room. They'd been so still up to now that he hadn't even noticed them.

Richelieu spread his hands in mock apology. "You didn't seriously think it would be so easy, did you? You are a valuable resource. I'd be a fool to let you slip through my fingers."

"Get someone else to do your dirty work."

"Sadly it's no easy matter finding someone with both the capability of acquiring an item, and the skill to know what he's looking for," Richelieu sighed. "So many precious things are so fragile, don't you find? So easily broken."

His eyes, suddenly, were cold, and Porthos was left with no illusions as to the meaning of the thinly veiled threat. He hung his head.

"I want to see her. You at least owe me that."

Richelieu nodded to one of the guards by the door and he slipped out, to return a minute later accompanied by a rather severe looking woman holding a small girl in ringlets by the hand.

"Papa!" At the sight of Porthos she pulled out of her chaperone's grip and dashed across the room, ignoring everyone and everything else in it. Porthos scooped her up into his arms and buried his face in her curls, trying not to let her see he was shaking with emotion.

"Ellie." He breathed in, deep and slow, trying to calm his racing heart. "I've missed you, sweetheart."

Richelieu viewed the reunion with a barely concealed sneer. "How very touching. However, I trust it's a sufficient reminder as to where your loyalties must remain?"

Porthos' reply was lost in a sudden and unexpected hammering on the front door. Everyone swung round in startled alarm, as if they could see through the wood panelling to the entrance hall beyond.

There was a moment of tense silence as everyone in the room found themselves listening to the distant sounds of Richelieu's butler going to see who it was so brazenly demanding entry.

Raised voices in the hallway were followed by the door to the drawing room bursting abruptly open to admit a large number of uniformed policemen.

In a matter of seconds everyone found themselves restrained, although the two burly gendarmes either side of Porthos made no move to remove Ellie from his arms, for which he was silently grateful. She had given one shrill scream at the sudden influx of strangers but had let him quieten her, and now was looking around with bright-eyed interest.

Following the uniformed men into the room came a plain-clothes detective in a trenchcoat, who looked around at the various prisoners and directed himself to Richelieu.

"You are Armand Jean du Plessis Richelieu?"

"I am. What is the meaning of this outrage?" Richelieu demanded, sparing one poisonous glance for Porthos who gave him a baffled look in return and a helpless shrug.

"My name is Inspector Treville. I am here due to information received and allegations made on behalf of the Egyptian government, that you are involved in the illegal procurement and smuggling of extremely valuable archaeological relics, most recently one golden funerary artefact which I assume to be this item here." Even the dour policeman spared an impressed glance for the contents of the plinth before forcing his attention back to Richelieu.

"I haven't stolen anything. I arranged to purchase this item in good faith," Richelieu snapped. "You are mistaken."

"On the contrary, I have an extremely specific description including a sketch of the item in question, recently acquired on behalf of the British and Cairo Museums by one Athos de la Fere, and reported stolen."

"Well I don't know anything about that," spluttered Richelieu, jabbing an irate finger at Porthos. "If you want to be arresting anyone it's clearly this man, he's the one attempting to sell it to me."

"Oh, my apologies, did I not make myself clear?" Treville asked with a look of slight satisfaction. "We're arresting everyone in this room."

\--

Further protestations by Richelieu fell on deaf ears, and they were duly transferred to a police station in the city, albeit in separate vehicles, much to Porthos' relief. Once there he was shown into an interview room, told to wait, and left alone with Ellie.

He looked around. The room was sparsely furnished but clean, and the fact he wasn't yet in a cell was a bonus. It hadn't escaped his attention that other than being asked to confirm his identity he hadn't actually been charged yet either. There seemed little option but to do as he was told and wait and see what happened. 

Ellie had been quiet and subdued during the journey into the city, but now they were alone again she found her tongue.

"Are we in trouble?" she asked anxiously.

Porthos smiled at her. "You're not," he laughed, stroking her hair.

"Are you?" 

His smile faded a little. "I'm not sure. It depends." 

"On what?" Ellie persisted, with a child's typical impatience for evasiveness.

"On whether someone keeps a promise they made me," he said softly. "On whether they're able to, I suppose."

"You shouldn't break promises," Ellie announced solemnly, and wriggled off his knee to go and explore the confines of the room. It didn't take long, but there was a pad of notepaper on the desk, and Porthos found her a stub of pencil. 

An hour and a half later they were still there. Ellie had passed the time patiently drawing, but it surely wouldn't be much longer before she got bored or hungry and started asking why they couldn't leave, and Porthos was starting to think that even if he was arrested and charged it would be preferable to this interminable waiting. 

Eventually the door swung open and Porthos got to his feet, the initial flicker of apprehension fading thankfully when he saw who it was.

"Athos."

"Hello." Athos smiled at him, and they embraced each other warmly and with considerable relief.

"Sorry you've been kept hanging about so long," Athos said apologetically. "Took me a devil of a time to convince them the dead guard at the airport was nothing to do with either of us - or with Richelieu for that matter. Without Grimaud or Marcheaux available for questioning it makes it messy. I'm learning if there's one thing policemen don't like, whatever country they're from, it's complications in their case. I thought it was all ironed out, then they decided to spend most of today re-questioning me." 

Athos smiled down at Ellie who was staring at him with wide eyes. "Hello. You must be Ellie. Are these your drawings? They're very good. I could do with an artist like you on my site." 

She smiled at him shyly, then hid her face in Porthos' leg, who laughed.

"Don't be a dafty. Look, this is Athos. He's my friend. Say hello."

"H'lo," came the muffled greeting, and Athos smiled at her. 

"I'm very pleased to meet you." He looked back at Porthos. "You coming then?"

"Am I free to go?" Porthos asked, in surprised hope.

Athos nodded. "You'll need to come back to swear a statement, but as long as you keep your promise to testify, then for now yes. You'll have to stay for the trial, but I've been authorised to tell you that if your evidence helps them nail Richelieu, then they're prepared to cut a deal and you won't face charges."

Porthos sagged with relief. He looked down at Ellie, recalling Richelieu's coldblooded threats to harm her, and nodded grimly. "I'll testify. I promise."

"Then may I suggest we get out of here?" Athos smiled, and held open the door.

\--

The young policeman sitting in the parlour of a manor house half an hour north of Paris looked around him with interest as he waited for the man he'd come to interview. The room was dark - drapes blocked most of the sunlight and the furniture was all old heavy oak and not to his taste at all, but spoke of a heritage and pedigree that made him instinctively respectful.

The housekeeper had furnished him with a cup of coffee while he waited, and it rattled nervously in the saucer when the door banged open without warning.

He rose to his feet, partly out of respect and partly concern, as the man who had entered was walking with difficulty and leaning heavily on a cane. 

"Monsieur Phillippe Feron?"

This earned him a scowl. "I'm a Marquis, actually." Feron waved away the half-offered assistance irritably. "I'm also a busy man, you have five minutes, I suggest you don't waste them. What is it?"

"My name is - "

"Don't care, get to the point," Feron interrupted, sinking into a chair with a stifled grunt of pain.

"I am trying to trace a pair of men who I believe have worked for you in the past. Georges Marcheaux and Lucien Grimaud?"

"Why, what have they done?" Feron fixed him with a penetrating stare.

"They are wanted for questioning on counts of theft, smuggling and suspected murder."

"My my, they have been busy." Feron yawned. "Haven't seen them."

"But they do work for you?"

Feron shook his head disinterestedly. "Have done in the past. Regrettably I was forced to dispense with their services some time ago. Unreliable. Haven't seen either of them for months. Was there anything else?"

"Well actually sir - "

"Good, good, you can see yourself out I'm sure."

Caught off balance, the young officer found himself rising obediently to leave, and in the hallway was shepherded firmly out of the front door by the housekeeper. She entered the parlour to clear up and Feron gave the table a look of distaste as he made his way past.

"Throw that away," he ordered.

"The coffee, sir?" 

"The cup."

He laboriously made his way up to the first floor and entered his study, pausing to rest every few steps. This room was as dimly lit as the parlour below and a figure was silhouetted against the window, watching the policeman drive away from behind the safety of the embroidered curtain.

"What did he want?" 

Feron gave a humourless grin. "You, Georges, what else?"

Marcheaux came over, scowling. "Bloody police should mind their own business."

"Maybe if you conducted your business more diligently in the first place they wouldn't need to get involved," Feron snapped. "Remind me again why I didn't just give you up?"

"My years of devoted loyalty and a reluctant but genuine affection?" Marcheaux suggested dryly. Feron gave a derisive laugh which promptly turned into a coughing fit, and Marcheaux helped him to a chair. 

"Or is it just because I know where all the bodies are buried?" Marcheaux continued, once Feron could breathe again and had been supplied with a glass of wine. "Not all of them figurative."

Feron gave a breathless laugh, this time with a little more warmth to it. He unfolded a twist of paper and poured a powder into his glass, swirling it thoughtfully. 

"You've disappointed me Georges," he said after a pause. "I wanted that sarcophagus."

"I know." Marcheaux hesitated, trying to judge Feron's mood. "I'll make it up to you."

"Yes. You will." Feron gripped his wrist with a claw-like hand and pulled him closer. "And soon."

Marcheaux winced. "The bloody thing's probably back in Egypt by now. It's going to be the best guarded piece in the museum."

"Forget the gold," Feron said carelessly. "I have a different aim in mind for you. Lucien."

Marcheaux's look of alarm deepened. "I have no idea where he is. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. And you didn't see him at the end. That glove - it was changing him. Not for the better."

"Yes, you described the effects very vividly," Feron mused. "Bring him home to us, Georges."

"I'm not sure that's advisable. He was becoming a monster."

Feron shook his head, a covetous gleam in his eye. "Oh he's always been a monster. Now, though Georges. Now - he's a weapon."

\--

Porthos had always thought of England as being grey and rainy, but today the sun was shining gently from a clear blue sky, and the sound of birdsong rippled over the rural scene in drowsy accompaniment. He was sitting on a grassy lawn in the depths of the Wiltshire countryside, while a few feet away Ellie played happily beside a babbling stream, absorbed in looking for fish.

A noise made him turn, to see Athos emerging from the cottage at the top of the lawn. Thatched, with roses round the door, Porthos thought it was the prettiest house he'd ever seen. 

Athos was carrying a tray, and set it down on the lawn before taking a seat on the grass next to Porthos. "Lemonade for Ellie," he explained, then added, "lemonade and gin for us."

Porthos laughed. "Thank you, for inviting us here," he said sincerely. "It's beautiful."

"I thought you could probably do with getting away from Paris for a bit, after the trial," Athos murmured.

It had taken almost two weeks, and had finally resulted in the incarceration of Richelieu for a long list of crimes including the kidnap and false imprisonment of Porthos' daughter. On this count the testimony of the woman invested with being Ellie's combined jailer and governess had gone a long way towards securing a conviction, as to Richelieu's visible anger she had confessed everything in an attempt to mitigate her own sentence. 

To Porthos' quiet relief, despite the woman's outwardly miserable demeanour she had exhibited a certain genuine affection for the little girl when speaking of her, and careful questioning of Ellie in private suggested she had never been mistreated.

The whole process had taken its toll though, and despite escaping a custodial sentence Porthos had been at a loss to know what to do next once it finally ended. Athos' invitation to join him in England for a few days had come as a welcome surprise, and the idyllic setting of his home even more so.

"I haven't had the opportunity to really thank you," Porthos said quietly. "For everything you've done for me."

At first stubbornly convinced that he was beyond help, Porthos had eventually given in to Athos' persistent offers, and they had hatched a plan between them. Athos had gone to the authorities, laying out everything that had happened and explaining that Porthos would be prepared to testify against Richelieu. If the police were interested in catching the bigger fish, he could tell them when and where and how. 

Porthos had gone about his business as usual, changing the delivery details on Grimaud's crate and shipping the armour back himself, ahead of presenting it to Richelieu. He'd known that the police wouldn't be far away, but Athos had promised to try and get them to hold back on the raid until it became clear whether Porthos and Ellie were being allowed to go free.

"What will you do now?" Athos asked, after they'd sat for a while in companionable silence watching Ellie's fruitless but dedicated attempts to build a dam across the small stream.

"I haven't really decided," Porthos admitted. "I'm not sure what options I've got, to be honest."

"Will you go back into archaeology?"

Porthos gave a bitter laugh. "Who'd employ me, with my record?"

Athos was silent for a while, then seemingly changed the subject. "You know, they've authorised a full-scale excavation of the tomb? Joint venture, between the British Museum and the Egyptian government. It's going to be massive. They've, er - appointed me as director."

"Yeah? Congratulations." Porthos raised his eyebrows and gave an impressed nod. 

"Probably be fifty percent paperwork if I'm honest. Spending half my time in Cairo. Rather be getting my hands dirty," Athos smiled. "But as it stands - well, with Hassan dead - I'll need a new site manager. Someone I can trust."

Porthos looked gloomy. "D'Artagnan, presumably?"

Athos frowned, then shook his head. "Oh, I didn't tell you. I had a letter from him this morning. When they searched Richelieu's house, they recovered most of the artefacts that were, er - stolen from him," said Athos, quickly glossing over who'd done the stealing in question, "at Abydos. He's been reinstated."

"That's good. Wouldn't the Alexander dig be a lot more prestigious though?" asked Porthos in surprise.

"Kind've. But I think he had a number of reasons for preferring to return to Abydos." Athos smiled to himself. "And I'm fairly sure one of them is called Constance."

"Oh." Porthos laughed. "Fair enough."

Athos pulled up a handful of grass and shredded it methodically. "So - I still need a site manager?"

"Me?" Porthos stared at him.

"Why not? I can think of no one better suited."

Porthos hesitated. "What about Ellie?"

"Bring her with you."

Porthos was floored. "I don't know what to say," he managed eventually. 

"Say yes."

Porthos gave a breathless laugh, staring at Athos for a long moment as if to judge he was serious, then nodding slowly. "Alright. Yes. God, yes, thank you."

"Good." Athos smiled, relaxing slightly. "That's settled then."

Porthos took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, considering his sudden change in fortune. A moment ago he'd had no home, no job, no money - and with one generous impulse, Athos had offered him the world.

There was something else that had been nagging at him though, and Porthos reached into his pocket, taking out a golden amulet on a fine chain. "You'd better have this," he said slowly. "I've been meaning to give it back to you for a while. I should never have taken it in the first place, but I guess old habits die hard. Maybe it can count as my first catalogued find?" he added hopefully, as he passed the pendant to Athos, who looked surprised.

"Where did you get this?" 

"Picked it up in the burial chamber," Porthos admitted. "It sort of fell into my pocket," he muttered, prickling with unease at the intent way Athos was studying it and wondering if he'd just made him change his mind about the offer. "Sorry," he blurted. "I've been feeling guilty about it ever since."

"What?" Athos looked up and blinked. "Oh, no, it's fine. I just wondered - did you have this on you at the airport?"

"Yeah, I've had it on me the whole time. Why?"

Athos traced his finger thoughtfully over the design, which showed two cats above a stylised eye.

"This - the Eye of Horus is commonly used as a protective symbol, and the cats - probably represent Bastet, again typically protective, often against evil spirits - it's just - those phantom things that attacked us - didn't they strike you as pretty cat-like?"

"Yeah, now you mention it. Do you think there's a connection then?"

"They didn't attack you," Athos pointed out. "They went for everyone else - me included - but not you. And they backed off when you ordered them to."

"What, you think of all the pieces in that chamber I happened to pick up the amulet that controlled them?"

"Or at least one that protects against them," Athos suggested. "It's a theory, anyway." He handed the pendant back to Porthos. "Here. You keep it."

"Really?"

"You deserve to get something out of all this," Athos smiled, and Porthos grinned back, touched.

"I might give it to Ellie then," he mused. "Good luck charm, eh?"

They fell quiet for a while, sipping their drinks and watching Ellie getting steadily and contentedly wetter and muddier in the stream.

After a few minutes of plucking up his courage, Porthos shuffled sideways on the grass until he was right next to Athos, who looked enquiringly at him.

"So. All this paperwork of yours," Porthos murmured. "Will I be seeing much of you?"

Athos smiled. "You can see as much of me as you like," he said softly.

Porthos gazed into his eyes and for once Athos didn't look away, despite the faint blush spreading across his cheeks. It was this, more than anything, that convinced Porthos that Athos had fully intended the double meaning behind his words. 

He leaned towards him and Athos didn't move away, just tilted his face up to receive the kiss that Porthos delivered with a gentle purpose.

There was a moment's pause, a breath where they just looked at each other - and then without another word spoken they were kissing in earnest, locked in each other's arms.

It was Porthos who finally drew back a little, studying Athos' face for any trace of hesitation. "You sure about this?" he murmured. "Wouldn't want to sully your reputation, after all."

Athos gave an embarrassed laugh and shoved him in protest. Porthos fended off his half-hearted assault with a grin and captured his hands, pulling Athos into another emotional kiss.

"I'm sure," Athos breathed, when Porthos finally let him up for air. "With all my heart."

Porthos wrapped him in his arms, and gave a shaky sigh. "Good. Because after everything we've been through, I don't think I could bear to lose you. I just didn't know if you - " He let the thought tail off, but Athos shook his head.

"I'm yours," Athos promised. "If you still want me?"

"I've wanted you from the first moment I set eyes on you," Porthos declared. "I know you thought I was just using you, but it was never about that, I swear."

Athos nodded slowly. "I think I finally realised that when you saved me back there in the desert," he admitted. "It gained you nothing other than - "

"You," Porthos finished for him, with a fond smile. "You daft bastard." 

He paused, glancing down at where Ellie was still playing at the foot of the garden. "It doesn't bother you that I've got a kid?" 

Athos shook his head. "You come as a package deal, I know that." He smiled. "It's rather nice, actually. I never thought – well. That there’d ever be any."

Porthos finally relaxed then and Athos hugged him close, suddenly realising how tense he'd been. 

"New beginnings, eh? For both of us maybe," Athos said quietly. 

"Sounds good," Porthos agreed, and kissed him with a smile. "Sounds pretty damn perfect in fact.”

\--


End file.
